I'm Sorry

Dear eight-year-old self,

I’m sorry

I’m sorry I’m not the high school popular peppy pretty miss everything you dreamt you would be

Scribbling these fantasies in your diary that would bleed through the pages

Hoping that the words you wrote would bleed through you

I’m sorry

Dear eight-year-old self,

Your hair is going to be pulled across the country

You’ll leave places that you call home

You’ll lose the other half of the heart shaped best friends necklace several times

You’ll learn “best friends” can be just a label,

Peeling off the side of a rotten can of tomatoes

I’m sorry

Dear eight-year-old self,

Starting high school you never had much confidence

You had enough acne creams to paint every cloud in the sky

You were called “oompa loompa” ever since you could remember

You’ll let those names rewrite your own, taunt you, become you

You’re veins will be wired with lies

You’ll try to throw up all your pain and stress with a flush

Soon you’ll have so much hurt,

So much hurt no band aid could fix it believe it or not

You’ll try to catch all the pain falling from the sky

But you’ll realize your hands are just too small to catch it

But sweet heart I promise you’ll get better

I’m sorry

Dear eight-year-old self

You’re favorite time of year is just a daunting remembrance

Twinkling lights have dulled, the gingerbread cookies have a bitter after taste

Mommy and Daddy won’t both pretend to be the man in the red suit

Momma and daddy will both have their own trees

Your heart will feel like a gold glass ornament dropped to the floor,

Shattered.. broken

You’ll try to fix it with glue and tape but it’ll never be the same

I’m sorry

Dear eight-year-old self

Dad says right now you can be whatever you want

But you’ll soon learn Daddy will only be proud with a stethoscope dangling across your chest

You’ll try to run into multiple directions to follow your true passion

You’ll fight and fight, only to be chained to a hospital floor

You want to here that it is okay that you don’t have to have it all figured out

I’m sorry

Dear eight-year-old self

Momma’s smile will deteriorate with the years

You’ll see a row of slithers under the palm of her hand

You’ll trace them when she falls asleep from drowning in the taste of her sour tears

To see your everything shed into a lifeless soul

Looking as if her only purpose and will to live was to take up oxygen

Little does she know she hurt you more than she ever hurt herself

That each slither will be carved into your brain

I’m sorry

Dear eight-year-old self

You’ll soon realize life really isn’t fair

Right now you have enough people to hold every tip of your fingers

But soon you’ll realize one person to hold your hand is enough

The Christmas ornament is broken, but now glued back with forgiveness and learning

You’ll learn to put the “star” in starting over

You’ll learn you’re not a chaotic ball of apologies and excuses

Eight- year old self..

You’re not the person you wrote down in your diary,

With a perfect family, a perfect house, and a perfect life

I probably didn’t turn out to be the person you wanted me to be

I probably didn’t even come close to all the sketches you endless drew and crumpled into a trash

I’m sorry for all the heartaches, for the set backs, and upper cuts, the can’ts,

I’m sorry to every point in your life where you felt like

 It was just you, a little girl with a loose pair of boxing gloves

I’m so sorry

But I have one more thing to say

One thing you must always remember

That the little girl with the loose pair of boxing gloves

Eventually learned the will to fight