my arms are full with the pieces of last week

She wrote me a letter. I let it sit on my bedroom floor
in fond but distant memory, never lifting a pen.
When she asked why there wasn't a letter back so I wrote one bitterly.

Sarcasm dripped from the crooked lines,
Scribbles ripped the center.
I read it, I ripped it apart.

She wrote me a poem and I typed a loath letter.
I typed, filling the page with the feelings I thought I felt and had kept,
ignoring the dust that rested on top.
I read them, I cringed and took them away.