Dear ____ [Redacted],

I have your cookies,
and have had them for some time now.
I can’t bring them to you because of sadness
and because I’m collecting ways to fail,
hoarding them because they’re comfortable
out in the open like that. Your cookies, though,
are in our basement storage. Out of sight, out of mind
except that every day, I think about going down there,
and then I remember that I’m a terrible person,
completely the sort who hides cookies
while singing mourning songs
and waiting for rats–I hear they’ve been sighted
right there in basement storage, and I’m sure
they like Thin Mints as much as anyone else.
I might just eat your cookies, actually,
to stave off rats and because
if I’m going to be a horrible person,
I may as well be one that contains
your four boxes of Trefoils.