The Scroll

I looked up and it was dark outside,

three hours gone, and I realized I'd tried

to ignore the time, to let it pass

by scrolling through an endless glass

screen. My thumb moving on its own,

down, down, down, through feeds I'd known,

the same jokes, the same people, the same life

lived through a screen, the same strife.

I couldn't stop because stopping would mean

admitting I'd done this to myself, that I'd been

the one choosing to put my hand

on a hot stove, understanding

the pain was coming but I did it anyway.

The screen glows in the dark. I stay

and stay, my thumb already moving again.