Soft Tissue

Forty minutes for four words.

The cursor is a blinking heart monitor,

flatlining every time I hit delete.

I’m thirty-six years old.

I should be past this chemical sabotage.

Then you walk in.

The bell on the door is a starter’s pistol

and my pulse is a bird hitting a windowpane,

trapped in the hollow of my throat.

I look down at the screen.

The blue light pools in a spill of sugar

on the laminate table—

white crystals catching the glare,

granulated and sharp and completely useless.