There’s a piggy bank in my chest and my lungs
are punctured with overdraft fees. I don’t know how to
break open the pink porcelain rolling around
in my ribcage.
Four business days after I said, “I love you”, I received a
“Was this you?” alert in my email. The subject header
pierced through my sternum as if I’d paid someone
to twist little silver balls through my flesh-
I didn’t.
You said that I asked for this; every bad thing
that happens is just another excuse to write a poem
and monetize the sadness, but you have no idea that
it was you who robbed me-
eyes wide open.
When I taught my voice to say the word, “no”, I thought
I could charge my doubters respect and authority, but all
I got was an invoice for hurting their feelings.
In a world full of ApplePay and Venmo, why
is it so hard for “affection” to be on the request line?
Is there a cure for emotional poverty?
I know love doesn’t come cheap, but it doesn’t
have to break the bank either.
some poet[te] 