Interest Rates

The receipt in my pocket is thin as a wing,

a blue thermal slip from a Tuesday in May.

You thanked me for being the honest thing

that wouldn’t just pack up and walk away.

But the date on the ink is a jagged truth,

I was miles from the place that I claimed to be.

Now your trust is a burden, a heavy tooth

grinding down on the softness inside of me.

The screen door is torn where the mesh has frayed,

a small, jagged hole where the moths push through.

It’s a debt that I’ve kept, and a price I’ve paid

for a version of me that was never true.