Envelope

Under the weight of a glue stick, 
it played dead; 
stomaching someone else’s story, 
tears it bled.
But worry not, sir, 
for the tears no one could see; 
silent and invisible, 
they happened to be.

Soon, the poisonous ink
had maimed its face;
soon, the poisonous ink
had written its fate.

Unable to fly,
it waited to dive to the pits;
a futile exercise, for
back under the glue it now sits.