Unread Messages to Myself
The Texts I Never Sent but Always Felt
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.
About the Creator
The Content Crafter
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Comments (1)
This really hits home. We've all been there, pouring our hearts out in drafts that never see the light of day. I've had those late-night typing sessions, questioning every word. It's so relatable how you struggle to find the right thing to say. Do you think there comes a point when keeping these messages to ourselves is more about holding onto the past than actually moving forward? Or are they a necessary part of the healing process?