Pulse Check

The light in the stall is a buzzing,

clinical white that shows too much.

I am pressing two fingers

against the soft part of my wrist.

Under the skin, the blue lines

branch out like a map of a city

I’ve been trying to leave for years.

The thud is heavy, a panicked

neighbor knocking on the wall.

The pharmacist is counting out

the pills with a plastic spatula,

click, click, click.

I’m still here, counting

the way the blood forces its way

through the narrowest parts of me.