Collated

The tray starts to rattle, a rhythmic, low thud.

My pulse is a river of stagnant, gray mud.

The ink is still warm on the lies I have typed.

The sweat on my palms has been carefully wiped.

It sounds like a hammer in this empty room.

A mechanical cough in the gathering gloom.

I hold the new paper, so crisp and so white.

I’m too scared to send it, too tired to fight.