Under the Floorboards

The landlord wants the keys by noon tomorrow,

so I’m dragging the mattress across the floor.

I’m pulling up the dust and the hidden sorrow

that I pushed away and chose to ignore.

I found the manila envelope in the dark,

coated in a fur of gray and gritty lint.

It’s full of every word that missed its mark,

every page I wrote but didn't have the heart to print.

My palms are filthy from the paper’s edge,

a decade of letters that I never dared to send.

They were supposed to be a bridge or a pledge,

but they’re just a weight I was too tired to mend.

I sit on the bare wood and feel the grit,

realizing how much room a secret takes.

I’m surrounded by the ghosts of it,

and the mess that an unlived life finally makes.