unspoken, cracked open

I have a tiny corner of space where my unsent notes to family, friends, and lovers live (or, rather, go to die).

I do not delete them. I keep them.
And on occasion, I read them—
like silent incantations.
They help me grieve the words I wish I’d screamed but never spoken,
the safety I’d craved but never gotten,
the betrayal I felt but never avenged.

It is a secret space of the unspoken,
a sacred space where I crack open.

Until…