Fever

I have always thought too often of my deathbed to leave things unsaid.

/

I do it all wrong and reckless,

turn the pages on wet ink.

Heart on my sleeve,

I wear my armor inside out.

My secrets are written in permanent marker

in the stalls of public toilets.

My truths are scrawled on scraps of paper,

ripped from the lining of my pockets

and passed around to strangers on the street

while I sweat blood.

/

But coughing out dust

over a year of unsent letters,

I can only think about all the ways I could burn them.