The Bitter Truth

I found an old spittoon at the diner,

   its lonely corners thick with dust,

   like words I swallowed that turned sour,

   each drop a hidden truth, painful, precise,

   my friend’s letters dug up memories,

   truths sharp enough to cut through,

   I tried to hold them back, they slipped,

   a rough honesty, tasted raw,

   but sometimes it’s right to spit,

   let it land where it will,

   a clatter on the floor, so different from quiet.