March 22

The black lines and curves twist and attach,
to form words I can’t quite swallow.
I squint down at a screen that seems so bright.

Or maybe the disbelief is what causes me to rub my eyes.
 

Who are you?
What do you want?
 

Your words hurt me, not because you mean harm, 
but because I can’t do anything about them, and that’s what’s unbearable.
I made a promise to you, and I couldn’t keep it.

Regret is a sickness that worsens with the passing of time.
 

I press keys and my fingers try to type what I want to say.
The blinking cursor taunts me, 
keeping track of every silent second that passes by.

No accumulation of pixels could ever paint you a picture of how I feel.