Automatic Renewal

The bank statement doesn’t lie about the cost,

a monthly ghost that haunts the ledger’s line.

I’m paying for a person who is lost,

a version of myself I’ve left behind.

There it sits on the table, still in the wrap,

under a skin of drywall dust and grit.

It’s a shiny, high-gloss, expensive trap

and I haven't even thought of opening it.

The serrated edge of the plastic sleeve

catches on a hangnail, a sharp little sting.

It’s harder than it should be just to leave

this useless, glossy, recurring thing.