Too Tired for This

I spent four months on that draft.

Not writing it — I wrote it once,

twenty minutes, after the second glass of wine

when everything felt urgent and exact.

But I kept going back to it.

Sharpening the line about what you did.

Making sure it was accurate and fair

and also landed like I needed it to land.

Last Tuesday I came home after twelve hours

and opened the draft and read it through.

The cursor blinked.

I deleted it.

Not because I forgave you.

I want to be clear about that —

I haven't, I don't know if I will,

and I'm not sure it matters.

I deleted it because finishing it

would cost me something

and I had nothing left to spend.

The screen went dark.

I ate cold leftovers over the sink

and went to bed.

I keep waiting to feel like that was mercy.

The generous kind, the kind with some light in it.

Mostly I just feel tired

and you're still wrong

and somewhere in me the draft

keeps rewriting itself.