Hard Lead

I’m trying to tally the things I still owe.

The list is a ledger of names

and numbers that don't quite add up.

I pressed the pencil too hard against the page,

desperate for the math to finally break even,

until the lead snapped with a dry, sharp crack.

A silver shard skidded across the paper

leaving a jagged scar through the middle of your name.

I tried to rub it away with my thumb

but the graphite just spread.

Now there’s a dark, metallic smudge on my palm—

a stain of the effort,

the dirty proof that I was actually trying to pay.