Luxury can be whatever you mold it to be.
Sadness can be as deep as you wish to dig.
Love can be as quiet as you see fit.

But luxury can become stale.
Sadness can bury you,
And love within letters are easily lost and never sent.

Friends can twist into strangers.
You're voice and posture not simply recognized across the room anymore.
You can hold a conversation but nothing sticks.
As if you've thrown water against a glass wall.
Like tears you spill no longer impact them.
They dry up fast with no real meaning,
So why waste them.

You type letters on a screen.
Curious if you truly have anything in common.
Or are you burdening their time?
Meaningless minutes on the clock,
Was it well spent?

Delete the lines,
Delete the messages.
Delete the thought.
I am not who I was to them anyway.
A blank canvas, sometimes can be preferable.
But to rewrite the stories you made years ago, were they even good?

I read the lists, the notes, the messages.
And I saw grief, burden, annoyance and strained emotion.
Impossible circumstances.
Is that not traumatic enough.
Have I not already cause enough hurt?

As awful as my story may have been,
There is a worst one under all the debris.
And why would I return to dumping it at others feet.
It seems...in the notes, it made no impact.
It just was acid on wounds.

Apologies unspoken.
Misunderstood storylines.
Complex trauma.

Unsend my depression.
Unsend my burdens.
Unsend the history.

Should I ever send,
"I cannot recall any part of my life separate from the parts I refuse to speak about."
I wonder if I'd regret it.
Why stir up the dirt at the bottom of the lake,
I'd rather see clear
If I have to drown.

Unsend.

-ACCLIVITY series