Inventory of regret

i used to call it escape…
that’s the word you use
when rent is late
and your conscience is hungry.

small bags, fast hands,
a phone buzzing like a wasp
at 1 a.m.
and me answering
like a good dog.

first real money
I bought steak.
chewed slow
like I’d earned teeth.

customers came in pieces...
eyes begging for a pause button
on whatever was killing them.

and I was the guy
with the remote.

i told myself:
i’m not forcing anybody.
like that makes you clean.

there was a kid,
thin as a question,
watching my hands
like they were holy
or dangerous.
probably both.

after that,
every bag looked like ash.
little funerals
for cash.

regret isn’t a siren…
it’s a drip
behind the ribs,
a sound you can’t shut off
no matter how loud you count.

i wanted out,
but “out” is a door
that doesn’t open
from my side.

so here I am…
hands empty,
mouth tasting like metal,
saying it plain:

i became the wrong kind of man
because it was faster
than becoming the right one.

and the punishment is this…
not jail,
not death…
just waking up
still me.