Typewriter

It's done.
The words are there, on the page.
You can white them out or X them in,
They're there, bonded to paper.
Grossly naked and overwhelmingly true.
My love letter to you.
It started innocently,
Just me alone in a room with a page.
Then an avalanch came,
Took one fingernail and a cheap bottle of wine with it,
Leaving this wreckage of letters behind.
My manifesto
My impure intentions.
My cold sweats and burning fevers,
Out in the world,
Breathing the same air as you.