i wait for a letter you
swore was coming to me:
insincerity wrapped up in an envelope
you said “my love i
write every word to spite you,”
but as long as you’re writing
it doesn’t bother me.
i’m choked up in hands
i was never blessed enough to touch
and syllables become a source of comforting.
love used to leak from
the tip of your pen
but now blood's the only ink that shows up legibly.
i give up on a letter i
thought was coming to me
i guess it was just a misunderstanding.