Return on Indifference (Receipts Available)

Seven months of time spent collecting data and putting it into a spreadsheet. Columns of words spoken with rows of numbers, a note scribbled off to the side. Looking for the return on an investment that never came and never went— I’ve been staring at it for so long that my eyes have started to blur. The pace of my heart reflected by the blinking of the cursor sitting on the screen. I drag my mouse down the column—recounting the tallies—what was the final score? When I put in the data, I could have sworn that there was this plus a little more. Closing in on end-of-day, the clock in the corner still ticking quietly away. My hands rest on my desk—I didn’t realize that it was covered in crumbs. What makes this realization funny is that I can’t tell you when I last ate bread. The only other sound in the room is the water cooler in the corner—a continuous hum. Maybe if I sift through my emails one more time, I can find the missing thread. Someone once told me that it’s better to stop at something when you’re ahead, but I’ve always been more likely to stop something once it leaves me for dead. Patterns that I’ve learned from—some that I swore I would never repeat. Another hour spent, answers evasive, still scrolling in hopes it was a misread. When do we determine that we’ve finalized the last version of a report? How do you explain spreadsheets that continue to come up a little short? With a quiet sigh, my mouse hovers over the option that allows us to export— data, the one thing that I’ve learned in this life that can never be ignored.

Again, I’ve managed to find myself trying to carry a conversation with a wall It’s a different room, with different lights, standing in a completely different spot It’s been so long that this numbness was something that I had finally forgot Just circling the sentences with newer syllables— the repetition of unabsorbed thoughts You knew the chorus but it seems you’ve forgotten the words to the rest of the song I held my breath, standing frozen in place for just a second too long My heart pounding against my ribs— my breathing creating a dramatic rise and fall Maybe it’s a misunderstanding or maybe I’m just looking at it wrong I wasn’t expecting my own voice to echo louder than yours Or to realize I’ve been knocking on unopened doors It’s not goodbye—it’s a break from the constant delay I’m just tired of chasing answers you won’t give anyway So I’ll take some space, not out of anger, just to feel more like myself To sit with all the questions still gathering dust on the shelf I’m not expecting answers, or holding you to explain Just learning how to loosen my grip on quiet, while something still remains

How many times have we stood in this exact spot? How many times have I claimed that I was just doing it for the plot? How many times have you paused a second too long before speaking your thoughts? How many words should be said before the past is something we forgot? How many versions of this moment exist in my mind? How many were kinder, or braver, or perfectly timed? How many ghosts of us linger in spaces we’ve crossed? How many almosts until something is finally lost? Whispers of words permanently left to play in my head I remember all the times you left because you thought we were dead Hanging on too tightly — the tension of a nearly frayed thread In the silence, the only thing I hear clearly is the never-ending dread. Flashbacks to the hundreds of nights asleep, tangled in sheets on your bed I’m tired of listening for underlying clues in everything you leave unsaid “Would you agree that I deserve someone who actively, actually wants me?” A question you hesitated to answer — a secret truth that could set us free “Yes, if that’s what you wanted.” Honesty wrapped in sudden ambiguity. I think we’ll still be singing the same song by the time they read my eulogy, Blurred boundaries we both learned to speak in too fluently, And I’m tired of twisting my truth into something said suitably. I’m starting to doubt there’s a way for this to end in what I once hoped was unity. How many times do I have to put my sword down for you to choose not to leave? Counting the seconds by the soft tic-tic-tic—will we let this blow up, or will we take a risk?

Today I picked up the pen, but then decided that it was time to drop it again My mind lost in thoughts, trying to ground myself while the room around me spins It’s a game both signed up to play but I’m starting to think neither of us could win Exhaling out of my mouth, air so thick that when I breathe in I could swear I just drank gin Together we had carefully started a poem, a new variation to call and response First I call, then you use word salad to distract from the ticking of the time bomb Waiting for the explosion before I realized that there’s no point to all the commotion Putting together random syllables coated with a thin layer of blame— a special brand of potion I pull out the grey rock, awaiting the next chaotic attempt to write a line Half whisper, half croak —“Don’t worry baby, I told you that I’m fine” Your view is of importance, but it’s obvious that you don’t feel the same about mine A complaint that somehow turned into the court hearing for a suspected crime Sitting at the table with a hand full of cards; maybe I shouldn’t have accepted the gamble I’m terrible at math— as an afterthought maybe we should’ve played scrabble I signed up for communication, not a middle of the day battle With a sigh of defeat, I stare at my hand as if it were a scalpel Dissecting the facts until all that’s left of the truth is a small sample Awaiting a sentence, sitting on a wooden bench with both hands and feet shackled The binding of a book that’s already finding a way to start to unravel

The shadows always come and go, Lost between what I do and do not know. The ghosts dancing around the candle’s glow— If you don’t bleed, will you ever grow? I look toward the sky—a balloon floating away with my hope, Its string dangling precariously over branches made of oak. It’s funny what we choose to do to help us cope, Past mistakes still haunting, swinging at the end of the rope. When did we learn the only things we can count are money or time? That apathy is framed as power, but showing love is a crime? Where clarity is forgotten because it’s easier when you blur the lines, And it doesn’t matter who gets hurt—as long as you’re okay, then all is fine. The world will continue to spin—didn’t you know that it’s all by design? The damage gets buried so they can continue polishing a false shine, Teetering on the edge of believing they’re free but understanding they’re confined. Another sleepless night, examining what’s in front of me and what’s left behind, Looking at what’s inside of me and what’s considered normal by mankind, Always searching for a key I don’t think I’ll ever be able to find, Reminding me that life is just a mixture of chaotic stories that somehow combined— And we’re all just reading the book word by word, line by line.

I fucked around and stayed long enough for you to leave an imprint in my soul. Nothing in this life is free—there’s always a price; I just didn’t expect the cost of the toll. Sitting at a table covered with green felt, eyeing the cards in my hand—do I raise or do I fold? Staring at two hearts and praying the next card’s bold; The river could save me—or just leave me out in the cold. I wait a beat, ensuring I maintain the stoicism that I’ve painted on my face, Considering my options: do I play it safe, or do I go all in—succumb to fate? Even silently to myself, I must admit the odds are slim and my chances aren’t great. If I were being honest, this would be a hard bluff, even if I was holding a full straight. I look straight ahead, using all of my strength to keep you from seeing my shaking hands. You watch me closely as my lungs slowly deflate—pretending not to witness them expand. With a gulp of air and a barely audible sigh, I put the cards on the table and I started to stand: “I fold.” An attempt to remain calm—a misguiding narrative that I hoped would land. Eventually, you have to learn that everything doesn’t need to end in fire or giant flames. Eventually, it no longer matters what, in the end, was a justified place to put the blame. Some endings don’t explode—they just dissolve and leave you tame, Like whispering goodbye to something you can’t quite name. I didn’t storm out screaming, didn’t curse or stake a claim— Just left the key and closed the door; no need to play the game.