Short Circuit

The screen goes black and shows me my own face,

a greasy smudge in a dark and hollow place.

Three words you sent without a comma or a dot,

I’ve tied myself into a tight, humiliating knot.

I’ve chewed the filters of my cigarettes to bits,

while my brain goes through these frantic, static fits.

The yellow pulp is wet and flat and wide,

like the pride I’m trying so very hard to hide.

I check the 'read' receipt. I check it twice.

I’m acting like a child. It isn't very nice

to be this age and feel the wiring start to fray

because you didn't have a single thing to say.