Pen and paper on the ready to write this letter,
But where to start she doesn’t know.
She is a master of mixing words to seduce, Or to hurt,
Or to bombard one’s thoughts with things one who rather not think about.
Her imagination has always been wild,
And she can write pages of stories with barely a pause.
But this letter,
She has no words.
Her mind is empty,
Her heart is torn.
For whatever she says,
It won’t change anything.
She wants to lash out,
To be a shrew,
To scream out LOUD with her words.
To say things that’s will hurt,
And wound, just the way she is wounded.
But she stares at the paper,
And leaves it blank,
For some hurts can’t be healed by words,
By tearing another down to feel better.
Sometimes it’s better to be a lady,
Then to be a shrew.
So she leaves the words in her head,
The silent letter that she will never send.
