The clock keeps breathing louder,

ten days—no, less—each tick

a shove against my chest.

He says, I’ll have it.

Says it soft,

like a promise wrapped in mist,

like a hand I can’t hold onto.

But the plan?

The plan hides silent,

tucked in shadows where I can’t reach.

I bite down hard on the words:

Do you have it yet? Are you sure?

Afraid to be the nagging voice,

the wind against his fragile house of cards.

Afraid,

because I don’t trust him—

because I can’t.

The power’s gone dark;

I turned it off myself.

The water’s dry.

The calls from the loans

ring out like sirens

that I don’t answer anymore.

Debt climbs like ivy up the walls,

wrapping tight around the house

we’re about to lose.

And still he pawns,

scraping at the edges

for the next fix,

for the next lie that looks like hope.

I am doing what I can:

hands blistered from holding this together,

heart hammering through sleepless nights.

Orientation Monday—

The payment will fall before this job will hand me a paycheck.

Tonight,

it’s me and the dark,

and the sound of time

rushing at me like a flood

I can’t hold back.