Dear 12-Year-Old-Me

Dear 12-Year-Old-Me,

Fifth grade begun while our life ended.

Not quite literally,

But when freedom is sacrificed,

What is the point of living?

 

Opportunities come rarely

Yet there were too many times

I didn’t seize the moment

Didn’t live in the present

Kept waiting for a better tomorrow

A better month

A better year

But it didn’t get better.

I still kept waiting.

Each opportunity

I kept waiting

For a less crooked spine.

Cowering in fear that it would worsen if I stepped outside

So I stayed inside the four walls of my room

Collecting more regret

As life lived outside

Of the frame of my window.

 

Then I turned 16

The doctor announced my fate

It finally would be better,

But not without a fight.

 

But it’s been 7 wasted years.

Gone.

I should have fought sooner.

 

From a room filled with tools and screws,

I woke from the crooked spined dream

The dream was my reality.

That reality is now my past

 

When I woke up, I was thirsty

Literally and metaphorically

My throat was quenched with apple juice

But my soul

Your soul

Our soul

Wanted more

Wanted out of that bed

Wanted to feel the wind

Wanted to feel a sense of accomplishment

Wanted to feel alive

Recover and rise above the curved spine

It finally would be better,

But not without a fight.

 

If a time machine could bring me back

I would tell you

To

Get

Out.

 

Your crooked spine

Does not

Define you,

Rule you,

Constrain your mind,

Or limit your abilities.

 

Live your life sooner than I did.

From 18-Year-Old-Me.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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