Between the Rungs

The neighbor’s floodlight is a surgical white,

cutting through the blinds, ruining the night.

I’m sitting on the wicker, the paint coming loose,

my shoulders tight in a self-made noose.

The phone in my pocket is buzzing a name,

someone who thinks I’m still in the game.

The green wood catches a thread in my sleeve.

I’m scared you’re going to leave.