Not Enough

The screen glows cold

in my palm, numbers like a thin knife—

the paycheck dropped, but it won't stretch

far enough across the cracks of rent,

lights blinking red,

like warnings pressed against my ribs.

I count what’s missing

between bills and hope,

like gathering sparks from an empty socket.

Weeks compressed into cents,

words like "due" and "late"

hammer at the back of my throat.

The room tightens,

air squeezed thin,

breathing through the spaces that aren’t there.

Tomorrow’s hunger sits heavy,

and I’m still waiting

for the sum to add up,

but the numbers

won’t fill the cracks.