The cursor blinks a small rhythmic pulse

The cursor blinks, a small, rhythmic pulse

of all the things I’m not allowed to say.

He cut my hours until the rent became a math problem

I couldn't solve, and now he wants a quick referral.

I type the words Happy to help

and feel the bile rise, a hot, metallic tang.

Being the bigger person is a heavy suit to wear;

it pinches at the shoulders and costs a fortune to maintain.

I click the mouse and the blue icon appears,

a tiny kite flying away with my dignity.

A receipt for a debt I didn't owe,

signed in the ink of my own quiet exhaustion.