The Unposted Letters

Who will wash them off?

These staring scars

unsew my soul —

fibre by fibre,

each thread undone

by a delicate, annihilating touch —

A corporate hand in velvet gloves.

Scars masked as victories —

Whom do they please?

They do not fade,

but etch themselves

into the crown of triumphs

Like moon-craters of conquest.

The cries of innocents,

massacred in proud revenge,

cling like relics

in an abandoned house —

still filling the space,

still echoing.

Those bloody streets,

buzzing flies,

blood-soaked clothes,

unposted letters

smeared in grief,

decaying bodies —

they’ve left the scene.

The blood

has been washed off.

But —

there’s dried blood

on my page.

Who will cleanse it

without tearing the paper?