Autonomic

My boss is talking about 'synergy' and 'growth,'

tapping a pen against a yellow legal pad.

I want to look him in the eye and say I understand,

but my left eyelid has started its own private riot.

It’s a tiny, rhythmic motor under the skin,

a moth battering against a heavy velvet curtain.

I press my thumb into the bone, trying to pin it down,

but the nerve just jumps around the pressure.

It’s a betrayal of the hardware, a glitch in the code.

My face is telling a secret I didn't know I had—

that under the suit and the calm, practiced nod,

something inside me is trying to twitch its way out.