My life is filled with half-finished sentences
Letters I wish I'd written
Letters I wish I hadn't
Letters unfinished, like the sentences
And as the items stack up
Without the finality they require
They beg me to finish them
With a pleading nothing else can replicate
The pleading of a thousand voices
Never fully formed
And perhaps if I believed that
If I believed that everything I never finished
Were half-formed fetuses
Sitting in the basement
In jars of formaldehyde
Their tortured faces preserved
As their tiny imperceptible hands
Beat the glass perpetually
Perhaps if I believed that the rows and rows
Of jars were pleading with me to finish
It might be that I would
And the voices would slowly disappear
Until the basement was empty
And all of my sentences
Ended.