She said it was for my patience

She said it was for my patience,

my reliability,

her hand on my shoulder

like I'd earned something real.

The envelope is still in my pocket.

Three days now.

I opened it once to look—

the number was too high for who I am.

I know how unreliable I am.

I cancel plans the morning of.

I say I'll call and don't.

I lie about why I'm late,

about why I can't show up

to the things that matter.

She said patient.

I almost laughed.

I'm patient the way a stone is patient—

because I don't have the energy

to do anything else.

The envelope feels like contraband,

like proof that I fooled someone

into thinking I'm better than I am.

The weight of it all day—

the money that doesn't belong to me,

the praise that was for someone else,

some version of me

that only exists in her office,

in the moments when I remember

to show up.

I could deposit it.

I could spend it.

I could give it back.

But every time I take it out

of my pocket,

I feel like I'm stealing,

like I'm taking something

from the person I'm supposed to be

but keep failing to become,

and I don't know

if I'm trying to become her

or if I'm just trying to