Letters Unsent

Some letters are never meant to be sent.
They are a ritual, a reckoning,
a release.

There is something sacred
when pen meets paper—
the page absorbs
what the mouth can’t say.

I have journals lined in silence,

some pages no one will ever read,

some turned to fragments—

ripped, gathered,

kept in a glass vase,

like wildflowers

wilting in time.

Is it quieting my voice, or guarding the truth?
I want my words to heal—
to be light.
I know what the dark ones do.
Some stay lodged,
circling back on heavy nights.

So I write with intention.
To get lost.
To remember.

Letters across time,
across people.
One reads: I really thought we had more time…
Another: If I am too much,
and must be taken in pieces...

I don’t want to be your antibiotic.
I want to be your addiction.

Maybe that’s the only way I’ve known love—
urgent, all or nothing.
I know it’s flawed,
a cognitive distortion,
but it’s mine.
 

Some letters ask why.
Some beg to be rewritten.
Some earn the silence
they’re now buried in.

No, I haven’t kept them all—
only the ones that still breathe,
the ones I may one day
tell the truth to.

And the rest?
Ripped.
Released.
Unsent.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai