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Her hands were doing a frantic shiver

above the keyboard’s plastic click.

I didn't mean to be the storm,

but the words came out like a kick.

The spreadsheet was a mess of red,

and I told her so, with a sigh

that sounded like my father's voice

when he used to make me cry.

I saw myself in the breakroom glass,

sharp-edged and cold and lean,

the kind of person I used to hate

shimmering on the screen.