Hypergraphia

I am writing you a letter that I don't intend to send.
And yet, and yet,
I cannot say what I mean.
The inklings of almost-thoughts dribble out from my brain and
stain the page in great blots where my pen has lingered for too long.
Not unlike our relationship.
That was unkind.
I think I'm sorry.
No, I'm not.
Because it's true, really, that relationships are like milk-
they've all got an expiration date.
I feel like this pen has tapped into my vein, drawing blood away from my heart
to tell you how it feels, how this feels, how ending it felt.
Too personal.
I start over.
I am writing you a letter that I intend to burn.
And yet, and yet,
I put a stamp on the envelope.
Forty-four cents wasted but it feels more official this way and really, I owe you since
I donated your clothes to Goodwill.
That was a lie.
I put them in a box I intend to give to give to Goodwill.
I intend a lot of things.
I always get distracted.
Like I intended to be in a relationship with someone who knew me, someone who
valued me, someone who would fight with me, someone who would read to me in the park
on lazy summer afternoons but instead I got distracted by you.
I was so tired of being tolerated.
Of being conditionally adored.
That was unkind.
The truth often is.
Too long-winded.
Take three.
I intended to write you a letter that I did not intend to send.
But I wrote this poem instead.
Because fuck you, that's why.