The Exit Interview

The medical plaza is a sea of glass.

I’m sitting in the front seat, letting the engine die,

trying to swallow the way she looked at me

when she peeled the 'justice' off my eye.

My rings are biting into the bone.

She said he’s just a man who let me down,

and my anger is a heavy, ornate throne

I built so I wouldn't have to leave this town.

My palms are white where the plastic pressed,

a map of the things I haven't confessed.