Letters I Never Sent

Somewhere in a drawer there is a stack of letters addressed to people who will never read them.

Some are angry. Some are tender. All of them are honest in a way I could never manage in conversation. I keep them not because I plan to send them, but because they are the truest record I have of who I was on a given afternoon.

The unsent letter is its own form. It has no reader to please, no relationship to protect. It is writing at its most private and, for that reason, its most exact.