The Cost

I opened the bill and saw the red

circled number, and something bled

away inside—

some lie I'd been holding tight,

some false belief that I could make it through the night

without admitting I was cold.

I've been turning the heat down at night

to save money, to get it right,

and I never even told myself

that I was shivering in bed,

that I'd been lying

about the cost of staying warm instead.

The number on the page stayed clear.

I folded it away,

like if I couldn't read it today

it wouldn't be real,

wouldn't be something I'd have to steal

the means to pay.

But I know what it says.

I know the amount.

I know that tonight

I'll turn the heat down again,

and I'll lie under blankets and pretend

that the cold is something I chose,

that the shaking isn't proof

of how little warmth

I can afford

to hold.