All I can come up with are
Callous postscripts and paper cuts.
These messages go un-read in my
Un-sent box.
The tearstained papers with empty passages
Bleed their ink on my desktop.
When I try to wipe up the blood,
The letters I wrote with hallow quills
Stain my hands.
Under these dim lights
The messages creep up and
Re-create themselves
Into the shape of
Sinister post scripts
And you can see on my face
What I forgot to mention.
~Drawers full of broken wings.
Very Truly Yours,
Digress.
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