Diagnosis in the Dark

The phone screen bleeds a sickly shade of blue,

while I read through lists of things I shouldn't know.

My thumb is twitching—pulsing right in view—

against a crust of bread I left an hour ago.

The forum says it's nerves, or maybe worse,

some rare decay that starts inside the wrist.

I’m cataloging every twitch and curse,

falling down a hole I should’ve missed.

The sandwich sits there, cold and half-complete,

while I decide if I can even stand up on my feet.