The hand that reaches for hope  
recoils—  
like a moth from flame,  
drawn,  
then undone  
by its own balance due.  

The mind that dreams of bridges  
sees only  
the price of the toll—  
not the crossing,  
but the interest owed.  

It’s not a broken heart I fear,  
but the accruing weight  
of living—  
the logistics of breath,  
the compounding cost of survival.  

Each gesture  
a withdrawal.  
Each feeling  
a debt called in.  

Hope, an overdrawn account.  
Connection,  
a loan denied.  
Even rest  
requires collateral.  

No crescendo.  
Just breath,  
audited.  
Just days,  
foreclosed.  
Just me,  
still here—  
a ledger  
with no surplus left. 

—Tina Marie