Graphite

The electric bill is three days late.

I’ve turned it over to the white side

to try and catch the way the air feels

right before the rain starts.

My hand is a tight, wooden claw,

cramping around a pen

that’s running out of life.

There’s a dark, purple-gray smudge

along the side of my pinky,

a permanent mark of trying to say

something that doesn’t want to be said.

It looks like a bruise I earned

fighting with a shadow.

The paper is thin, almost translucent,

and my signature is just a frantic line

cutting through the math of what I owe.