Writing a Letter.

Bottle of blood has been bled dry
and the table is dimly lit
by a lamp with an old and tired bulb
that sits atop of it.

Thoughts are falling from a pen
and landing with a thud
as I try to make a piece of cake
from a pile of mud.

It's been a long time coming
that this situation takes place.
The unveiling of a feeling
denials can't erase.

And as the curtains draw
I can so picture the audience.
Tears aching down a slope
amidst a loud, stunned silence.
Contempt, confusion and despair
aimed in my direction.
A quivering wish through quivering lips
that I didn't make this confession.

But when a story is read, it's in your head
and stays forever
Long after the friendship that the
narrative has severed.

So I've foreseen this outcome
and how much pain it means for me
Yet I continue to turn my brain to ink
for my crowd to eventually see.
It's an exercise in exorcism,
pushing my obsession away
and if it ends up killing good things too,
well that's the price I have to pay.