Things I'm afraid to tell you.

I do not have, today,
sparkling stories or warm memories,
or glossed-up descriptions of grief.
And I thought, today, I'd be brave.

Write of that that isn't beautiful,
isn't perfect.

Fingers quiver. Type.

Delete. In the silence,
the fan beats out its relentless rhythm:
it's hot, it's hot, it's hot...

One day, love, I will not be afraid
of judgement and rejection.
I will be brave enough
to write of the things I'm afraid to tell you.