Low Battery at 4 PM

The silverware is screaming in the kitchen sink.

My mom says 'just breathe' like she’s some monk,

but she’s the one slamming the plates down,

making that clinking sound that gets under my fingernails.

I’m at the back of the 42 bus,

pressing my forehead against the glass.

There’s a greasy smudge there from someone else’s head,

and I just add mine to the blur.

My phone buzzed ten minutes ago but it was just

a notification for a game I don't play anymore.

1% battery. The red bar is a tiny, dying light.

I sent that message at noon. She’s seen it.

I know she’s seen it. The gray 'read' receipt

is a hole I’m falling through while the bus hits every bump.