Digits in the Morning

Cold plastic beneath bare feet,

digits glowing like judgment.

Blink and they shift—

a flash, a slap, a silent scream.

The floor feels cracked,

linoleum chipped and worn,

a mirror of years folded into pounds.

Heartbeat counts the beep

like a slow confession.

Numbers don’t lie,

but neither do they tell

what hides beneath the weight

of a morning breath.