Proof of Purchase

I woke up with a copper penny on my tongue,

a metallic tang that wouldn't wash away.

My phone shows a sidewalk, a ladder unhung,

a blurry corner of a world gone gray.

I don’t remember the walk or the door.

I don’t remember the person I was at ten.

I just see the scuffs on the hardwood floor

and the fear of having to do it all again.

It’s a chemical debt that I’m forced to pay.

I’m piecing the night together by the scars

on my palms and the things I didn't say

to the strangers leaning against the bars.