To: The Reader
We are March. Utterly lost. Inundated, then a frozen pause. Thaw. Rinse sins and repeat. What once was warmth has been replaced with raw heat.
You’d neither look into yourself, nor into my eyes. Even when you did glance around, you were blind. You’ve called me transparent. A mirror. Remember: all mirrors are clear until you gaze into one and it’s your own stare that appears.
I remember when I first opened this door; rather, poked through the peephole. Side-stepping the welcome mat eased a bit of the treason. You confused my pounding for your pulse; that’s why you thought I occurred without reason.
Is there any truth in my moments of weakness? Is my brain honest? Or is my heart a lecher to its own cadence?
I’m unsure. You and I, we were a dying pen. Only capable of producing a scratch after being put under heat. I was once the back page of a journal, unopened. You suffered writer’s block. How hard is this to believe?
Yes, a pen. Laying it down until next confession.