The skin on my knuckle is dry and split

The skin on my knuckle is dry and split,

a geometric map of a failing part.

I shouldn’t have asked the screen about it,

or let the search bar restart my heart.

Forty minutes deep in a forum thread,

where anonymous voices trade their fear.

They’re counting the days until they’re dead,

and suddenly, the end feels very near.

The blue light of the phone begins to float

in the lukewarm water beside the bed.

There’s a lump of lead rising in my throat

from the terrible things that I just read.