Everything in this poem happens in the gap between wanting to speak and managing to. A speaker is writing a note to someone, a goodbye, and almost in the same breath promises to destroy it: bin it, call it rubbish, and "just leave / Like normal." The central idea is the pain of a farewell that is never delivered, and how easily concealment can pass for ordinary behaviour. The speaker's real feeling is buried under a show of routine.
The two framing devices, the title and the line in guillemets, matter more than they first seem. The title is in the past tense: "I Threw the Supermarket Flowers From the Windowsill." So we arrive after an act has already happened. Supermarket flowers are cheap, quickly bought and quickly wilted, and throwing them out of a window suggests a gesture that is part rejection and part release. The poem doesn't say who the flowers were for, but they sit in the same world of disposable things as the note, the "bin" and the "rubbish." The windowsill is also a threshold between inside and outside, and the poem is all about a person hovering at an edge. Then comes «my hands are shaking», set apart like a whispered aside or a stage direction. It is the only line that admits to a physical sensation, and it makes everything after it harder to take at face value. The speaker sounds calm and practical, but the body gives them away.
That tension between calm surface and shaking hands runs through the construction. There is no rhyme and no punctuation, and even the apostrophes are missing: "Im," "Its," "wont," "Ill," "dont." The words come out flat and unpolished, as if typed too fast or too numbly to bother with the details. The lines are short, mostly one-syllable words stacked in small, end-stopped units, and each is a separate thought or step: write the note, don't give it, throw it away, leave. The effect is of someone talking themselves through a plan in instructions, because feeling it all at once would be too much. Rhyme would have given the poem a neatness this speaker plainly doesn't have, so its absence feels honest.
The word choices repay a closer look. The poem is built on refusals: "I wont give you the note," "you wont see it," "I dont want you to see this." The speaker keeps closing doors. Notice, too, a quiet slip in tense. The poem begins in the present ("Im writing a note"), but then says "It was a goodbye note," as though the message has already died while it is still being written. "Its rubbish anyway" is a defensive shrug, and it is hard not to hear the speaker running down their own feelings along with the paper. Then there are the final words, "Ill just leave / Like normal." The little word "just" shrinks something huge into something trivial, and "normal" becomes the bitterest word in the poem, because the speaker is hiding behind it. The poem stops without a full stop or a resolution. What "leave" means is left open: it could be leaving a room, a relationship or a home. A darker reading is possible, and the poem's refusal to settle the question is part of why it unsettles us.
What makes the poem significant is a neat irony. The speaker insists "I dont want you to see this," yet we are reading exactly what was meant to be thrown away. In a sense the poem is the note, rescued from the bin and handed to a reader. It captures something many people recognise: the things we most need to say are often the ones we write, fold up and hide. With almost nothing in the way of decoration, it lets us hear the quiet of an unsaid goodbye, and the shaking hands behind it.