The way she broke a heart
was in the form of a paper cut.
A simple post-it note,
the sticky side sitting with
obvious reluctance to the
shiny surface of the table
unpeeling itself over
and over
and over
in a threat to make hidden
the words
she could
barely get out.
She felt a strange
dullness as she wrote
and wondered where
exactly she was
in that moment,
the scratchy sound of the pen
hitting the table
under the thin piece of paper
a clue to her still current
aliveness.
She wanted to say,
here it is,
this inch of paper a
letter to the world
of a life that has
strayed
far
from the
original,
imagined
intention.
She wanted to say,
here it is
this inch of paper
a letter to the world
of a life
so far
unexpressed
unwild
un-gotten.
She looked down at
the inch square of paper
the last place she
expected
to launch a bid
for freedom
the last place
she expected
to cast a vote
for herself
the last place
she expected to
find
relief,
her thumb pressing,
the skin around the nail
turning white,
sealing,
the note to the table
so the draught
would not
dislodge it
from the closing of the door
behind her
as she walked out
the short square
of words
covering over
what had been
a life.
