On My Last Nerve
He’s about to be.
I had nearly a billion in my body, but they’re thinner than skin. They don’t grow back.
I didn’t even know I was down to one, until you found it and jumped.
It carries less than one-hundred millivolts, useless to you, but enough to blow my circuits.
The dining room fixture sparked and popped when the dimmer surged, frying all its copper neurons, leaving us in the dark at the dinner table.
I am no different than that reproduction, flush-mounted, frosted glass pendant.
My grandmother took a pill for hers.
My mother died because a disease ate all of hers.
I steeled mine to insulate myself from a similar fate.
You probably didn’t know that.
It’s the pain in my neck, the chip on my shoulder, the lock in my jaw.
No angels can dance on the span of it, but you managed to stomp.
If I had any more, I’d send the message to my hand to smack you.
It’s just that it really is my last one.
So please, get off.