Empty Inside

I was going through the mail I'd saved for months,

the stack that lived beside the toaster, fat

with things I owed or feared. An envelope

came clean across my finger, just like that.

Bled more than made sense. I pressed it

to the white of a utility bill

and watched the small red circle spread,

and stood there, very still.

The envelope was empty. Nothing in it.

Not even a return address to blame.

I found a bandage in a drawer I never use.

The shower stung it later, all the same.

I kept going through the mail.

The card was at the bottom of the stack.