Swipe Left On Perfection

The day shift whistles open in my chest—  

steam rises from the stacks of my ribs,  

gauges brighten along the sternum wall,  

and the loudspeaker that is my tongue announces: Production of love begins.

This factory makes love. That’s the work.  

My lungs are bellows feeding the warm, patient furnace.  

My heart is the steady boiler, humming red.  

Veins are conveyor belts carrying small, bright parts:  

kindness, listening, a soft place to land.

Raw material comes in crates stamped Morning,  

and dented boxes labeled Mistakes. We use everything.  

Especially the rain called tears—perfect coolant for hot work.  

A cat named Safety naps on the clipboard.  

Forklifts of forgiveness beep politely in reverse.

On Line A, we assemble comfort—  

velvet screws, laughter rivets, patience washers.  

On Line B, we pour second chances into molds  

and let them cure beside the open door.  

Quality checks are kind, not cruel:  

we keep the thumbprint of ache, an honest dent.  

Some scars are part of the warranty.

Packaging matters. We wrap each unit in tissue of breath,  

bubble-wrap of giggles, labels that read: For You.  

I stock the loading dock with boxes marked Take What You Need.  

When hands reach, I place the warmth inside them.  

When the bins run low, I don’t panic—  

I turn the valve, and the heart makes more.

Thieves do slip in—slick as shadows, pockets full of hush.  

They “steal” a pallet of tenderness and sprint.  

Good. That’s the plan. We keep the doors propped open.  

The security policy here is radical: if you can carry it, it’s yours.  

By the time their footsteps fade,  

Line A has doubled speed, and we’ve filled the space again.

Some visitors are too shy to take anything at all.  

They hover by the exit, reading the signs twice.  

For them, I set out samples on a low table—  

a warm cup of You’re Safe, a saucer of Stay.  

If they still can’t reach, I wheel a cart to their quiet corner,  

and say, Take two. We always make more.

At the loading dock they line up:  

the neighbor with paint on her elbows,  

the kid with one mitten and a scooter bell,  

the mail carrier with rain in his cuffs,  

the friend who jokes too loudly, the friend who barely speaks,  

the night-shift nurse with moon-sick eyes,  

the old man from apt 165 and his terrier with important eyebrows.  

I hand out warmth by the armful—  

cups for the tired, packets for the hurried,  

treats for the porch cat who won’t come close.  

Some take seconds, some only a sample;  

some tuck it up a sleeve for later.  

Labels read: For You. Return optional.

When the bins run low, again, I don’t panic—  

I thumb the valve, the belts brighten,  

Line B hums higher, the boiler leans into its song.  

I ladle a bowl for myself, too—break-room portion with my name—  

and while the thieves jog off grinning and the shy ones hover,  

we keep making more, enough for all of us again.

For myself, there’s Line C: Self-Repair, small batch, hand-finished.  

I pour a mug of my own gentleness, let it fog my glasses,  

button my morning like a fresh shirt from the line.  

Inventory report at close: given away everything;  

new stock rising in the mixing bowl of dusk.

Night shift flips the lights—  

dreams in hard hats, steady hands at the presses.  

The announcements whispers over the sleeping town:  

Love is in continuous production. No outages forecasted. 

Come by any hour. If you take it all,  

I will make more—  

for you, for them, for me—  

the plant inside my ribs working without end,  

steam soft as a lullaby, doors open.