with the internet at my back, these letters plow onwards

with the best of intentions, hoping to portray a life worth

living not sitting crumpled up in someone's ashtray.

they march on without remorse or hesitation, only stopping

to begin again and again, a horse with no rider, a train

with no passengers a house with no windows. the things we

keep boarded up are the ones we keep the closest, these

signs steer all the words straight into my shutters. these letters

help keep regret close and pain closer, a dull, throbbing ache

that chokes and burns, twisting lines that meet somewhere

out on the flattest plain, out on the darkest highway, out where

they can't hurt anyone, least of all the one who wrote them. but


minding the burn isn't hard to do it's simple once memory kicks

in and you find you've misrepresented everything including you