Receipt for the Damage

The crumpled slip sticks in my palm

like a wet promise I didn't want to hold.

I scribbled thanks where ink bled through,

saying 'thank you' to something twisted.

Debt wiped clean but not the weight:

the quiet bill paid with a cracked smile,

a blessing folded in torn paper,

hard to untangle, impossible to fold back.

I was waiting for relief, a door to open

but found the frame jammed, the hinges rusted.

The prayer answered — yes, but folded tight

around new questions no one knew to ask.

That gratitude feels like gravel in my mouth,

and the cost unfolds its shadow slow,

lined with the soft rustle of a thank-you note

that almost broke me on its sharp edges.