Cracks in Fine

I typed it quick — “fine” — like cracking glass,

word floating across a lit screen,

but inside, the lines splinter.

It’s the word you spill when no one wants

what’s messy beneath.

The word that’s a locked door,

then a cracked door,

then the door off its hinges,

but you keep saying it anyway.

The screen gleams but the cracks hold

more truth than the message,

I’m fine —

just cracked open too wide to pretend.

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"Fine" is the patch on a bleeding scratch,

a word cheap as a cracked dime,

a lie taped to the side

of a stubborn heart.