strikethrough
what was almost said
Folder:
workshopped
I begin with ~~certainty~~
no—only the tremor of a line,
a draft that refuses to settle.
The page offers ~~silence~~
but I write into its margins,
naming what cannot be named.
You read the ~~crossed-out~~ words
as if they were confessions,
but they are only scaffolds,
a way of showing the wound
without pointing to it.
I keep ~~erasing~~,
not to hide,
but to let you see
the ghost of what was almost said.
And when you arrive at the end,
you will find nothing resolved—
only the trace of our dialogue,
a ledger of ~~mistakes~~
that were never mistakes at all.
.
