Return to Sender

I found it behind the stack of old bills,

a blue envelope with a stamp that’s gone dry.

It’s full of the words that a coward kills,

a long, desperate list of the reasons why.

The paper is creased where I folded it tight,

a sharp, jagged line across every name.

I spent four hours in the middle of the night

trying to transfer the weight of the blame.

But the address is smeared and the ink has run.

It’s a relic of a fever that broke months ago.

I’ll put it back where it can’t be undone,

in the dark of the drawer where the dead things go.