Get Off Your Phone

One percent down.‍ ‍

A fading green,

Just a step from the imminent red

Of the low battery.

One percent down.

Alone with the people

Who pray on the fears

That they tell me only I can see.

One percent down.‍ ‍

I need to make it home.

What happens if I call my mom?

The green glare mocks me.

One percent down.

My persistent stare threatens it to drop again.

The people in this house circle me:

“Always on your phone.”

One percent down.

My lifeline out of this place is dying—

I don’t want to be here.

But I’m not allowed to go home.

By Morgan Baker