Every morning...

I walk to the door, check the mailbox

And I already know...

What’s inside

Another name

Someone not paying attention

The Cosmopolitan from number six...

I hold it close

I smell the pages

I don’t know why

It feels good

Something that’s mine

Without earning it at all

Number ten won’t get his Vogue back

Not because I’m mad at number ten

But because I just... don’t... return it

That’s all

Oh boy... oh boy... oh boy

The new Playboy

From number fourteen

Is lying here now

On my table

No one even knows

I’m not giving it back

I just... can’t

I just... won’t

Number eight stood at my door yesterday

He looked so tired

Asked if I’d seen his Formula 1 Magazine

I looked at him

For a while

And said... no

He believed me

That did something to me

Not pride... not guilt

Just... something

Number twelve’s Donald Duck

Is under my bed

I don’t even read it

It’s just there

But the worst one...

The one from number three...

An old issue of Fangoria

It shouldn’t be here

Sometimes at night

I swear it moves

Just a little

Like it’s breathing

Sometimes I think about returning them...

I really do...

But then I sit down...

And I just sit...

And then I don’t

Thank you, mailman

For every address... that fails

For every mistake... you make

For every magazine... that ends up with me

I’m ready for it...

I’m always... ready...

Always...

By DeathRups 2026