Cursor Blink

The clock hums three, relentless and bright,

a pulse behind my eyelids—too sharp.

I type words that stick like gum in my throat,

searching symptoms that curl inside me,

but I won’t say them—never aloud.

Browser tab blinks with cold blue light,

a clinical void where shame sits heavy,

waiting, waiting,

a heart tapping a nervous rhythm.

My breath catches on silent prayers,

finger poised, then trembling,

backspace swallowing questions like a secret.

This dark hour folds me tight,

like a confession that won’t escape,

and the cursor blinks,

a witness I can’t explain.