Unread Messages to Myself

I write to myself like I used to write to you,

In drafts I never send, in thoughts that feel true.

Messages trapped in a screen of light,

Typed at 2 a.m. in the middle of night.

“Are you okay?” — backspaced away,

“Do you still think of me?” — no, I won’t say.

“Miss you” feels weak, “Hate you” feels fake,

I scroll through memories I can’t unmake.

These messages pile up, one by one,

Fragments of a war I’ve never won.

They’re not poems, not quite prose,

Just bleeding truths nobody knows.

“Today I smiled, but not with my eyes.”

“Pretending is easy when nobody’s wise.”

I type, delete, then type some more,

Until my heart is sore to the core.

Maybe healing is slow on purpose,

Maybe silence serves its own service.

I save each draft like a ghost I knew,

A version of me that once loved you.

One day, I’ll read them and maybe feel proud,

Of the girl who stayed quiet in a world so loud.

Unread, unsent — but never unfelt,

These are the messages I kept to myself.