Bruises

You must forgive me for not writing sooner,
not due to absence of desire but thoughts
couldn't flow through the constricted channels
of my convulsed mind, their release every time, aborted.

How do you translate silence on paper? I thought
of sending you letters, full of blanks from edge to edge,
silent like signs of the hands. My thoughts are clamped
in its limbs, their weight increases the pain.

I really wanted to write you
but I rather that you see the bruises,
yourself, left by the clamps
holding down the words.