The Debt That Will Never Be Paid

The Debt That Will Never Be Paid

You held my hand through the repair,

Then used that hand to bar the door.

You claim the "fix" was never fair,

So I am owed—and owe—much more.

​A "fresh start" scrawled on dusty glass,

Where old ghosts watch the things I do.

You say my feelings cannot pass,

Because I thrice fell short of you.

​So now I’m quiet, small, and still,

Afraid to ask for what I need.

Boundaries broken by your will,

While old wounds are left to bleed.

​Is respect a gift or a price to pay?

Or a ghost I’ll chase until I’m gone?

I’m tired of living in "yesterday,"