The Cost of Being Good

The app shows a clean list:

each transfer a small line of text,

each no a different kind of yes

I should have learned to make.

He asked on a Tuesday.

Wednesday I checked the balance.

Watched the numbers, tried to see myself

in them—my goodness rendered in withdrawals,

my weakness spelled out in account activity.

Three times. Three different amounts.

I could read the decline in my own choices,

see how the yeses had worn me down,

sharpened me to nothing.

The screen is so clear.

It shows exactly what I've given,

exactly what I have left.

It shows me the point where I should have stopped

and didn't.

Now he'll ask again.

Now I'll have to say the word

that's been sitting in my mouth

like a coin I can't spend.

It tastes like metal. It tastes like I'm

a person who can break their own heart

by breaking someone else's first.

The app doesn't help with that part.

The app just shows the math.

And I'm finally starting to see

that goodness has a limit,

and I've already passed it.