Abandoned, incomplete works of emotion 
litter these several spiral-bound books. 
Unfinished letters to people 
I hate and love with all my heart. 
The words lie on the paper, 
undisturbed and untouched 
by the eyes of both their writer 
and those for whom they were meant. 
The words I could never say, 
but they were so easy to scribble. 
Pages and pages 
of pure vulnerability, 
run-on sentences until I trembled 
too much to continue, 
abruptly stopping.


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