Night Shift

The toast was burnt but I ate it anyway,

and the hinge of my skull gave a sharp, dry pop.

It’s the sound of a debt I’ll never pay,

a grinding gear that refuses to stop.

My jaw is a fist that clenches in sleep,

fighting a ghost I can’t quite name.

The secrets I thought were mine to keep

are carving a hinge into the frame.

The mouthguard floats in a glass on the sink,

a clear and rubbery jellyfish.

I stand in the kitchen and try not to think

about which part of the bone is ready to finish.