Then he tosses the pen when he’s done.
Thethunkagainst the glass desk punctures through the humming and pulls me back into my skin.
Everything comes crashing back.
I sway, catching the edge of the desk,
and stare at the wall to keep me steady.
The records. The plaques.
The awards for songs that never saved me.
My soul, wrung out between music notes.
My heart, mutilated to a point I don’t recognize it anymore.
My childhood, framed, frozen, still bleeding behind glass.
The burn hits behind my eyes.
But I refuse to let my tears fall here, for him.
Behind me, the chair groans under his weight.
Click.
Click.
The mouse moves in his hand.
Like I’m not still standing here,
spirit dead with his fingerprints inside me.
Like he didn’t just sign with one hand
and gut me with the other.
It takes everything I have left to turn around.
When I do,
he doesn’t glance up.
“Close the door on the way out.”
Click.
“And don’t forget—I run this label, baby.”
Click.
“Not you.”
Click.
I must’ve left the building,
