I am writing to you in tar.
It dries quickly on this leaf of paper;
the room is hot and dry,
I fear it may ignite.
It doesn’t feel right;
this makeshift pen is imprecise
try as I might
to colour within the lines.
I guess it’s me and you really.
The moment says what I mean,
not me. It bursts like
a Molotov cocktail when it wants to,
but until then it waits
and waits
and waits
until I need to say it myself,
and eventually I do,
but it's clumsy and in the end
I say things I don’t mean,
and then, and here’s the kicker,
I feel bad, not you.
So if and when you read this,
and the tar sticks your fingers together,
and the paper bursts into flames
and singes your hands,
don’t think of self pity,
because you’ve drowned
in that too much already.
Think of the times
when you’ve wanted to say something
but fucked up the delivery.
It will scorch your skin, and leave a blister,
and it will hurt, of course,
but I’ll have a damp cloth ready
if you want it.