49 Cents

"You need a stamp," the man said. I let the letter
slide into the teeth of the bin, and the drawer-door close. 
He was wrong, the stranger, you don't.  
You only need a stamp, if you want the words to
get where they're going.
For me, I wanted them gone from the pressing
murmur on my skull, gone from the insidious easing out
​through my hair
to lash me by the throat. 
So I wrote them down instead, put them in
the envelope.
The stranger assumed the words should be 
sent, but I am a modern day witch
and know
most words are better off in the graveyard
of the blue boxes than let loose on the world.