Gas fees up. Rent at the ceiling. My luck’s on a hot plate. Corner store gate half-down, neon Lotto dead, MetroCard bent, balance gone bad. Fridge rattles like a rat in the back wall, I count change under a bulb with a bruise. They call this living when the math turns mean, when Friday gets eaten before the lunch run. AI can sort the wreck into tidy blocks, still can’t trace where the damage began. [Bridge] Hall light skips over cracked beige paint, a thousand eyes in the plaster watch me move. Every notice jammed in the mail slot, feels like a subpoena, just for breathing. My own shadow in the hallway, feels too close, like it's waiting to report back to the source. News spits smoke from three blocks over, but the real fire's in the gas meter, ticking. They're always watching, always taking notes, every single digit, every single breath. Same hands selling panic and a fix, same bill, same grin, same old scam. Gas fees up. I’m still here, staring at the ledger. If the machine wants me cut clean through, I’m staying long enough to call it what it is.
