The Unsealed Envelope

I found it in my nightstand this morning—

white envelope, blue ink, unfinished.

No stamp. No return address.

I was hedging the bet.

Three years between receipts and dust.

I pulled it out and read

the first line.

The anger was there,

sharp and exact,

still waiting, still keen,

like something that's been

holding its breath

in the dark.

I could mail it today.

I could find a stamp.

I could let it travel.

I could end this.

But the envelope

has been opening

at the edges.

The seal was never pressed.

It was never meant

to be sent.

It was made to stay:

unsealed, addressed, unfinished,

proof that I chose

not to send it.

That I chose

to keep the anger here

instead of letting it land

on someone else's porch.

The choice reveals something

that regret never could—

not cowardice or shame,

but the strange relief

of knowing what you held back,

what you decided

the world didn't need

to receive.

I put it back

between receipts and dust.

The envelope stays.

The anger stays.

I stay.

We wait here,

unsealed,

unfinished.

And I'm not sure anymore

what I was protecting—

them or me or

the anger itself,

this bright thing

I held and held

and never sent.