The Pen

I took the pen from the dentist's office

because it was expensive, because it was there,

because nobody was looking,

because I've spent so much of my life

doing exactly what I'm supposed to do

that sometimes I need to do something

that I'm not supposed to do.

Even if it's small. Even if it's

a pen. Even if it won't matter

in a week.

It's in my bag now, and it's heavier

than it should be. I know that's not possible,

that a pen weighs the same

whether I stole it or bought it,

but somehow it's different.

Somehow it has gravity now,

somehow it's become evidence

of something I can't take back.

Nobody said anything.

I walked out like I'd done it

a thousand times before, like I wasn't

terrified that security would stop me,

that someone would see through me

to the small thief underneath.

But nobody noticed.

I got away with it.

And now I'm stuck with this feeling—

this weird combination of relief

and shame, this sense that I've

crossed some line I didn't know existed,

that I've proven something to myself

that I didn't want to know.

The pen is on my desk now.

I haven't used it.

I don't know if I ever will.