confetti

i've started writing down all the things i want to say to you,

the things i know you don't want to hear,

the things i know i shouldn't say—

all of those sappy, stupid things.

i've started writing these things down

on blue-lined notebook paper

or really anything i can get

my tendonitis-ridden hands on.

then i separate them

rip them

into little strips.

sometimes the words get torn on accident.

i write those ones out again.

and sometimes i tear them a second or third time

and it just keeps going like that

until i get it right.

then i take these little strips

and stuff them into my pockets

or into an empty pack of cigarettes

and then i drive around

in the middle of the night,

wasting half a tank of gas,

chainsmoking,

blasting old punk music

and sad British pop songs.

with every smoldering cigarette i slip

through the crack in my window,

one of these little slips of paper

goes with it.

i do this until i run out

of cigarettes

or coffee

or slips of paper

and then i drive home

and lie awake in bed

until i have to go in to work.

i don't know why i do this,

but i can tell you i'm doing it for myself.

maybe other people find these slips of

“i miss you”s or

“i wish i could tell you how much i love you”s

and maybe it does something for them.

maybe i've saved someone without really trying.

but that's not what this was ever about.

this has always been for me.

this is me

taking those things i so badly want to say

and letting them go.

i hope they get turned into a bird's nest

or picked up by a street sweeper

or that my cigarette butts set them on fire.

because after all this time

i know that all those things i shouldn't say to you

but wish i could

are just trash.

and that's all they'll ever be.