Unsent
DESIRELONGINGLOVE
There are things I want to say
but every sentence feels like a tripwire.
I hover over the screen,
thumb trembling like it’s holding a confession
too fragile to survive the send button.
I start typing.
I delete it.
I start again.
Each message becomes a version of me
more edited than honest.
I backspace feelings into fragments
because I don’t know
what I’m allowed to say.
What’s too much?
What crosses the invisible line
between open and inappropriate,
between vulnerable and needy?
I rehearse conversations
that will never happen,
rewrite texts that will never be seen,
chase safety through silence.
The cursor blinks like it’s waiting,
a pulse,
a question mark.
I type out
“I miss you.”
Then I erase it.
Replace it with
“Hope you are well.”
Pretend that’s the same thing.
Maybe you wouldn’t mind.
Maybe it wouldn’t matter.
But I’ve learned that honesty
can sound like intrusion
when spoken to the wrong person
at the wrong time.
So I keep my words
where no one can misunderstand them,
drafts folder,
notes app,
deleted history.
A digital graveyard
of almost truths.
I tell myself I’m being respectful,
measured,
mature.
But really,
I’m just afraid of making it weird.
Afraid of being seen
wanting something
I can’t quite name,
that isn’t mine to want.
So I edit.
I shorten.
I silence.
And somewhere between
what I want to say
and what I’m allowed to,
the meaning dies quietly
before it ever leaves my hands.
