I wrote your vengeful words on a torn scrap of paper, folding it into four corners to hold in the strictures, then tucked it into an old, musty book. The one that sits on a high shelf, never read, just gathering dust and losing its memories.
Plaguing my weary mind, I muted their chittering demands for release. Hidden away, ignored but not forgotten, so the black germs of your contagion wouldn’t continue to infect my spirit.
I should have burnt your words, destroying each one forever. Still I hoard them, keeping them within reach, to someday return them back to you.
*Photo venue: The stacks at Niceville Library, Niceville, FL