Unsent truths

The cursor blinks, a small, cold star,

on the white screen, waiting for my hand.

I type the words, they travel far

across the page, a hostile land

of honest thought. My stomach churns.

I write it all, the raw, hard truth,

the bridge that breaks, the lesson learns

its shape, from bitter, wasted youth.

Then backspace, swift, a quiet death,

for every line, each perfect phrase.

I watch them vanish, hold my breath.

It’s easier this way, these hazy days.

I can't say it. My throat feels thick.

The words would catch, get stuck right there.

Better to let the delete key click,

and leave them hanging, in the air.