Five Cent Heart

The watch was a gift I bought for myself

back when I thought I was moving up.

It looked like sterling under the store lights,

heavy and bright enough to hide the rest of me.

Now the silver has thinned to a ghost.

My wrist is stained a dull, mossy green

where the nickel has started to bleed through,

a cheap secret coming out in the wash.

I sit in the driveway and breathe in the smell

of the change in the cup holder,

that sharp, metallic scent of a pocket

full of things that aren't worth enough

to buy my way out of this skin.