Carbon Copy

The pen is a Bic with a chewed-up cap,

dragging a dry ball across the bill for the heat.

I’m forcing the ink to bridge the gap

between the hunger and what’s left to eat.

I press so hard the table takes the scar,

a ghost-list etched into the heavy wood.

It’s a jagged map of how things really are,

written deeper than a screen ever could.

Milk, bread, and the heavy weight of bread,

scarred into the grain like a permanent debt.

It stays behind long after the words are read,

a physical groove that hasn't vanished yet.