The Weight of the Delete Key

Your name popped up in a bubble on the screen

and for once, my pulse didn't try to climb my throat.

I went into the saved folder of my phone

and looked at the jagged waves of the voice note.

I’ve kept it for a year like a jagged stone,

a piece of proof that you were the one who broke.

But holding onto the hurt is a full-time job,

a heavy coat I’m tired of having to tote.

The little window asked if I was sure,

and I stared at the trash can icon for a while.

I clicked it and felt the ghost of you let go,

trading my right to be angry for a little bit of quiet.