A Letter To Five Year-Old Me

Little girl, Listen to me. Listen to me while your heart remains un-scuffed. Before the prints of that boy's combat boots have plastered themselves all over you like once wanted, now  impossible to remove bumpers stickers. And yes, he IS wearing combat boots (tightly laced to finish off his uniform), because love is a war and that war is a choice. Prepare yourself, little girl, because you will fight to protect love and sometimes love will be the thing that hurts you the most: The knife of a comrade twisting in your back, leaving scarlet stains that haunt your memory. Take that steel, little girl. Turn it into lighting and shoot it from your ribcage; you are force to be reckoned with. You will wonder if love is worth the pain, if the beauty of the rose is worth a prick of the thorn, if the commercials are worth watching the Superbowl. The answer is yes. There will be tears, little girl. And when they come, don't try to stop them. Cry yourself a river and reminisce on it's bank. Wade through the nostalgia and as you tread water, slowly learn how to swim. When you return to land, little girl, find a willow tree, it will weep with you and you will water it's roots with your liquid pain. Before this happens, little girl, before you decide to give your heart away, learn to know your worth.