The First Draft

The blue light of the phone is a cold fire

casting shadows of the ceiling cracks

across my face at midnight.

'I just need twenty bucks,' the text says,

followed by three dots that never stop dancing.

He’s the one who gets to be the mess.

I’m the one who knows where the flashlights are,

the one who keeps the spare key under the rock.

His voice on the phone was a thin, brittle thing,

and I’m tired of being the only person in the family

who isn't allowed to break.