Unsent Letters

I have a stack of letters I've written to people, but I've never sent. They aren't the kind that you forget to send or that you think you've sent but they've fallen behind your desk. They are the kind that you write for yourself knowing full well that you'll never send them. They are the words you want to say, but know you shouldn't, know you couldn't, know you wouldn't. They are the words that you can't bare to leave inside you any longer, but you have nowhere else to put them but in a letter in a stack tied with a yellow ribbon in your desk drawer. I put them in the stack because I'm afraid to burn them or throw them away. Even though they haunt me, I'm more afraid to not write them in the first place than to leave them collecting dust in the white desk in the corner by the window of my sunny yellow room in my parents' house in Maryland. And what does that mean about me? What does it mean that I have these words inside me. Pages and pages inside me with nowhere to go. That can't even go in my journals. What does that say about Melissa? Someone asked me that today. Someone who was trying to inspire me to figure out something about myself--someone who was trying to help me use my writing as therapy asked me about my stack of unsent letters and my shoe boxes. Why I have them and why I hang on to them and why I compartmentalize my life's history in unsent letters and shoe boxes. They weren't the first to ask and I'm sure they won't be the last. They told me to blog about it. I said I would. So here I am blogging about it and I have no answers, but at least I kept my word. Sorry whoever decided to read this. It's terribly boring and pointless.