The Suicide Letter

Last night I initiated writing on a scrap of paper,
It is tainted with a thousand tears I shed,
Yet they did not manage to slake my thirst,

Sorrow fills me up while despair sends my chest to burst.
I pick up the piece of paper saturated with my moist,
How the ink stains freely, mingled amid the tears.

I scrabble upon it some robust truthful words,
Words meant to be unheard, neither read nor spoken,
For they lay bare the reasons why my heart was broken.
Narrating the things of which my heart has never spoken.