Hearts in a Mailbox

My heart is on paper in a mailbox waiting.  

Just waiting. 

To be opened. 

To be read. 

To be splashed on by the tears of my mother.  

My mom.  Who doesn't know.  Not yet.  

And I'm scared.  And anxious.  And sad.  

So my heart is in a mailbox and my bum is on pins and needles.  

Waiting.  

Waiting. 

It's very uncomfortable.