Sealed

The envelope had my own handwriting on it,

my own address, as if I'd been trying

to send something to myself

and changed my mind.

The letter inside was dated three years ago.

I opened it slowly, like it might

disappear if I moved too fast.

Dear—

That's all I could remember writing.

The rest was gone or I didn't want to see it,

the name of the person I'd been angry at,

the words I'd crafted so carefully,

the rage or sadness or confession

that I'd sealed inside this envelope

and then decided not to mail.

There's power in the unsent.

It stays perfect in your mind,

never gets read, never gets responded to,

never gets crumpled up and thrown away

or worse—filed away, remembered,

held against you.

I put the letter back in the envelope.

Left it sealed. Put it back in the drawer.

Some things are meant to stay closed,

meant to stay spoken only to yourself,

meant to live in the space between

what you felt and what you could say,

between what you wanted to send out

into the world and what you needed to keep

locked inside.