I used to write poetry. Long before bills became my obsession and my body became currency, I’d fill notebooks with words about love and sunlight. Today, I found one under the bed—pages bent, ink smudged. There was a line about my husband’s hands being ‘warm like summer earth.’ Now those same hands work double shifts while I spread my legs for a man whose name I mouth like a curse. Gray fucked me over his desk today, my cheek pressed against some quarterly report, my ass red from his grip. I came so hard I saw stars, then cried in the bathroom after. The worst part? I know I’ll do it again tomorrow. Poetry doesn’t pay the rent, but god, I miss the girl who believed it could.