The Envelope

The letter's three years old—

I found it when cleaning,

recognized the rage in my handwriting,

the sharp edges,

the words that cut.

I wrote it when my sister said something cruel,

something that made me feel

like I'd been wrong my whole life,

like she'd been collecting

evidence against me

and finally decided to use it.

I meant to send it.

I didn't.

Now we're fine.

We're good.

We're the way we were before.

And she doesn't know

I spent one night

writing down everything

she'd done wrong.

The words are still true.

The anger is preserved

in the envelope,

sharp and real and waiting.

But if I send it,

I destroy something.

Change the way she sees me.

Change the way I see myself.

Change the peace we've made

without naming it.

So I'm keeping the letter.

Keeping the envelope,

creased and worn from being

folded,

carrying it around

like a bomb I decided

not to detonate.

And I'm living with this:

having something true to say

that I'm choosing not to say,

having words that could cut

that I'm burying

so that my sister can keep

believing I'm someone

she doesn't need to fear.

The letter sits in the envelope.

The envelope sits in my desk.

And every time I see it,

I feel both things at once:

the sharp satisfaction

of words unspoken,

and the weight

of keeping them.