The Unpaid Bills

The envelopes collect like snow against the door,
Red ink warnings stacking up across the kitchen floor.
Every ring of the phone is a fist against the chest,
Every voicemail a reminder that you’re failing every test.

You do the math at 2 AM with a calculator and a prayer,
Robbing Peter, paying Paul, running fingers through your hair.
The lights might go this Thursday, the water’s on a thread,
And the landlord’s patience is the thinnest thing you’ve fed.

Morning comes with a payment plan, a breath of room to move,
A hand extended from the dark, a groove worn back to groove.
The debt won’t vanish overnight, the phone won’t stop its ring,
But you lace your boots and face the day–survival’s a stubborn thing.