Forgery

The banker hands me a heavy gold pen

that feels like a weapon, or a blunt tool.

I have to prove I’m a person again

by following a primary school rule.

I watch the blue ink bleed into the grain

of a paper that costs more than my car.

I’m signing away the stress and the strain

of being exactly who we both think we are.

But the loop on my 'y' has gone flat and thin,

a straight line dropping like a stone in a well.

It’s a tired disguise, a new kind of skin,

with a secret that my hand is starting to tell.