Stitch

The bottom stitching was fraying.
Stained strands sprouted from my apron
by my thighs. I tucked it
behind so Boss wouldn’t see
disapprovingly. My mom said,
with venom, I suck out
the hours in her day. Gone.
Spent trying to mend, wash, perfect
that fabric shell I worked behind.

With a pen, I tore the cover apart,
penetrated the gaps and ripped.
The weight of the grease stuck to
the apron fell off my shoulders.