A Curse in 12 point type

It arrives unsolicited —

creased into thirds,

no return address,

just the cold autumnal weight

of a name you almost forgot.

The salutation cuts politely:

"To whom it may concern..."

(it always concerns you.)

condescension folded in passive voice,

where each comma drags across woolen sweaters -

like a hangnail,

and every period threatens to slam

the lid on your coffin.

You read it because you must;

because the ink on the envelope

is bleeding on to your fingertips,

spelling out the contract of broken promises,

each bullet point trying to pierce a nail

through the floorboards of your spine.

It tells you nothing and everything:

that you were never forgiven,

that the paper "knows" the shape of your lies,

that THEY have neither learned nor changed,

and that ink, once spilled, stains skin forever.

There is no need for reply.

Only a margin that shrinks as you read.

Only clauses that try to unravel your veins

with loose, desperate, erratic slashes

making word salad that mocks your pain.

Signed, sealed, and delivered

in Times New Roman;

because even evil has "standards".