Sticky Habits

Under the library table—

a flattened pink patch

stuck like a secret nobody owns.

It’s the ghost of my nervous fingers,

a bad habit that lingers,

stretching thinner each time I try to quit.

I roll a fresh piece between teeth,

a stale rebellion against quiet,

a tiny bubble waiting to burst.

Sticky and sweet, it traps the seconds,

making the nervous pause taste worse,

like chewing on the weight of my own breath.