A Letter To My Sixteen Year Old Self

April 10, 2013
I know this is not how this kind of thing is usually done,
Most of the time the authors of these poems
Are no longer sixteen,
They have dragged their battered bodies
Over the border of child
And into the magical land of adulthood
Where the streets are paved with credit card bills
And the instant coffee is spiked with instant wisdom,
But looking back still hurts too much
So they write these poems
To dull the edges of the knife from all those years ago
That is still lodged somewhere in their gut

But I’m not sure I’ll make it to adulthood,
I don’t think I’ll survive to eighteen,
Let alone the ten plus years
Before it is socially acceptable to write this poem
And no one else is ever going to write one for you
But you deserve a poem,
You have spent years weaving your words into safety nets
For everyone you love
But when you jumped from the top floor
No one was there to catch you,
You record even the smallest of details
So there is no chance of anyone ever being forgotten
But no one even notices you,
So this is everything you wish they would have said;

It is not your fault
He would want you to be happy
You are so much more than your disease
I love you
When he hits you, break his nose
I think your scars are beautiful
Do not give them the satisfaction of knowing they broke you
Break them back
I love you too
You are worth so much more than this
I know that every day feels like a war
I know you are tired of fighting
I know you didn’t ask for this
Your body is not a funeral pyre
Don’t you dare try to burn it to the ground

You are allowed to love her
You are allowed to tell everyone
You are not weak
He did not make you into damaged goods
I still love you
You are trying your very best
God will forgive you
Some days you will feel like a house of cards
In a hurricane
Some days you will feel like gravity is working twice as hard
Some days you will feel like a grenade
Some days you will feel like life is not worth living anymore
It is not too late to save you
You are so loved.

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