Subjective

She clicked the pen twice

like she was counting the seconds

until she could finally go to lunch.

I told her about the anvil

sitting on my sternum,

the way the air feels like drinking

through a pinched straw.

She looked at the door frame,

not the sweat on my lip.

The paper on the table

was a loud, white static

stuck to the back of my thighs,

tearing when I stood up

to be dismissed.