The Notification

His name lit up my phone this morning

and I knew before I even read what he'd written—

some unnecessary comment typed

with no periods, no punctuation,

like he's always fleeing his own thoughts.

The small anger bloomed preemptive.

I hate him before he's even said anything

because I know the shape of it,

the way it lands, how it doesn't land,

how it's always slightly off

in a way that can't be fixed.

Some people you meet and you know

the whole story. You know

you won't like it. Won't ever like it.

His text sits in the family chat

like a bad smell. I don't open it.

I let it sit like evidence

of something I'll have to explain

later, to someone, somehow.

The anger is small. The anger is preemptive.

The anger is the only thing that makes sense.