An Open Letter to Myself
Dear my eleven year old self,
Today you were alone again during break,
some days you don't mind,
today you do.
The same small taunting voices run around,
poisoning your mind
“ugly,” “fat,” “loser.”
Clouds salt the sky as the chains from swings
break on the cruel, black-topped playground.
Dear twelve year old self,
Today the same harsh little voices, spit acid at you.
whore
Who would have thought a simple choice would lead to this?
Whore.
What good is friendship when all it leads to is heartache?
Whore!
Streams of pity roll down your face, soaking
staining
corrupting
the fresh sheet that could have been a new day.
WHORE!
Dear thirteen year old self,
Silence.
Nothing but pages,
dark forests with splinters of sunlight,
distant lands adorned with the cascade of waterfalls
endless personalities open their arms to you,
who needs physical friends?,
page upon page never judge you.
A solitary giggle
interrupts the comfort of the silence..
You look up,your eyes pierce across the room
colorful language fills your mind-
“SHUT UP!” echo’s from an
unidentifiable place
you say nothing .
a page turns quietly.
Dear fourteen year old self,
Your eyes shoot daggers at the cluster of bodies,
judging
cursing.
If only they could all just disappear,
Die.
The mere thought of associating with them churns your stomach
How disgusting.
“Form groups”
the teacher says.
Idiot
“Does she not understand?”
Around you, small groups of two
threes
fours
form.
You're the only group of one.
Your tell yourself you don't care,
you beg yourself to not care,
yet
the aching in your heart is too much to ignore,
once again you want to cry but you hold back the tears.
Embarrassment makes your ears hot, a splash of shame reddens your face.
You scribble more names into your mental hate list.
Die.
Dear fifteen year old self,
You open your mouth,
a stream of words finally breaks free.
“I need to tell you something...”
Tears cascade down your face
washing away all your pain, your hate, your loneliness.
Arms encompass you
love you, telling you it's going to be okay.
This burden is no longer yours alone.
A warmth spreads throughout you,
setting ablaze the kindle that fired your will to live.
Dear sixteen year old self,
Jumbled words stream out of you, reaching all those around you.
You’ve never been good at public speaking,
yet
there you are
speaking,
stumbling
trying your best to get your point across.
A light blush blossoms across your face,
your palms are moist with sweat,
your legs are slightly shaking,
yet
no one notices. They are enthralled in your words,
they are captivated by your message,
they are moved by your passion.
You stand a little straighter
you speak a little louder
you take up a little more space.
Dear me,
You saw someone in the mirror today,
broken,
hurt,
unhappy.
You want to cry for them.
Your heart ached for them.
They whispered softly
“I am…”
“I am…”
Yet they stumble
unable finish to their sentence.
You decide to finish the sentence.
You decide to carry their burdens
their pain,
their hate,
their tears.
“I am...”
You decide to finish the sentence.