The Blank Line

I didn't cancel. They did.

The blank line appeared

where nine ninety-nine used to bleed,

a monthly charge, a tax on greed—

on my greed, my guilt, my need

to pay for ignoring something.

The email came so kind:

"We're sorry to see you go,"

like they'd been watching me

not use the app, not touch it,

and their servers got tired before I did.

I paid nine ninety-nine to feel bad.

They charged me for that.

I hated the fee and paid it anyway,

a monthly reminder that I could buy

my own shame.

Now the blank line is clean.

No charge, no guilt, no proof

that I was paying to ignore myself.

Relief? No—

there's something else:

they chose this. Not me.

I didn't get to fire them first.

There's a shame in being chosen to leave,

in being deemed not worth the keep,

not worth the server space,

not worth the effort anymore.

The blank line sits there like a small death,

like proof that something I paid for

finally decided I was gone.

I should feel free.

I feel the opposite of free—

I feel like something chose me,

and now the evidence is erased,

and now I'm the only one

who remembers the monthly charge,

who remembers the guilt,

who remembers paying for nothing.