The Closed Door

Red headline, blunt,

slashed across the phone screen.

'BANKRUPTCY.'

The logo, that stupid swan,

cheapened, almost cartoon.

My stomach dropped,

not with pity, but a cold,

hollow thud of recognition.

I remember how I bent,

then, so young, on my knees.

Begging for a desk, a name tag,

a way in. For that swan.

They sent a form letter.

'Not a good fit.'

I raged. Felt cursed,

a failure.

Now, just a digital tombstone.

All those prayers, unanswered,

a wall I beat my fists against.

It cracked, then, not me.

It saved me from the slow,

corporate rot.

The universe, sometimes,

says 'no' with a kindness

you only taste years later,

like ash and grace.