The Decimal Point

The leather of the new bag has a sharp and bitter scent,

a smell of something slaughtered for the money that I spent.

I looked at the screen of the ATM and saw the numbers grow,

waiting for a feeling that I’m never gonna know.

I thought the math would save me, would fill the empty space,

would put a different kind of light upon my tired face.

But the wind is cold and biting in the middle of the lot,

and I’m standing here still counting all the things that I am not.

An old receipt is blowing like a piece of dead, white skin,

a thin and thermal record of the state that I am in.

I’ve got the keys, I’ve got the coat, I’ve got the plastic card,

but living with the weight of it is still so fucking hard.