The Version That Works

I write the first line. Delete.

Start again. I know I'll fail it.

Dear—

No. Not like that.

I wanted to tell you something—

No.

Three sentences. That's where I break,

every time. For goodness' sake,

the backspace key is worn down smooth.

I type the same third line, and soothe

myself with the familiar failure.

The same cowardice. A jailer

of my own making, keeping me

trapped in restart mode. I see

the cursor blink. I'm rewriting

the same apology. Inciting

myself to finish, knowing

I won't. Knowing

that if I send this,

I become the one who dismissed

the chance to hide. Who risked

being told no. So I've asked

myself to keep editing,

keep the apology unfitted

to any world but this one,

this draft, this undone

confession.

So I delete. Again.

Press backspace. Dear—