I am tired of words, exhausted by the effort expended when what I say is not listened to or heard.
I used to believe a well-articulated point could bridge any divide, as though all the world lacked was understanding and compassion.
But the heart has no ears. It needs no promises. It knows only actions: the way it is considered, tended and held. It has no lips with which to whisper. It feels the truth.
I once held hands with a possible future. I inhabited entire homes there. But I am beyond question.
This writer has turned to math. I am done with words. Numbers don’t lie. Debts I let be borrowed against my good name will take me years to re-pay but I am gaining self-interest.
My heart is as barren as my pockets. I grieve but am not uncertain. Some problems can’t be solved. Some numbers don’t add up.
All that is left is the debris of absence: sleep in my eyes, sand at my bottom and lint in my pockets.
Letters have turned into bullets. Lips of envelopes no longer get my tongue or fingertips.
I am sick of this sentence.
Forgiveness is all I have left to offer without subtraction.