A Letter To My Past Self (And Everyone Who Needs It)

Hello there, you.
You, the girl who sits alone, making friends with the floor tiles of a school that does not know your name. You, the one who trembles at the thought of abandonment, whose words always seem to seek shelter in the sticky palms of sweaty hands. You, who fears failure, who sacrifices health for the sake of fitting into a size two dress without having to hold your breath. You lose sleep over loneliness. You are afraid of tasting new air, but you are suffocating. I know you hide your notebooks, your poetry, your passion. I know your destruction burns holes in everything, in everyone you touch. I know your heart, I can see it bleeding. It is red, and reckless, and real.
I just wish I could show you. I wish I could lift up the ceiling of the windowless box you are trapped in and show you the moon. I wish you could understand what it holds for you.
One day, you will meet your people.
You will learn to love the bubbling sound of your own laughter, Monday mornings, and the bravery of breathing deeply. You will find contentment in fleeting moments, yellow dresses, passion, friends that listen, making music. Falling in love, grass between your toes, twinkling eyes. You will think about outer space. You will cry like you’ve done countless times before, not because you are small and pointless and insignificant, but because you are a fraction of its infinity. Something alive. Something breathtaking. Something that has held you the whole time, for all time.

Hold on. I love you.

A Dichotomy


There had always been something so enticing about the way you shrouded yourself under a thin veil of apathy, a veil so insubstantial no one ever bothered to look twice. Apathy, such a pitiful excuse for a dreamer like you. I knew you cared, with every electrified fiber of my body, I knew it well. I could see right through the epidermal fabrication, the way you disguised joy under a stoic mask, never letting the crowds catch even a mere rise at the corner of the lip, concealing passion under nail beds and within the inky blue lines running along the underside of the wrist. How I desired it. How I starved for it, trembling, to rip open the seams of your veins and let the pulsating crimson rivers whisk me away to the islands of your vulnerability

Maybe, or quite literally, you would have died.

Within the light of rare moments, you lent me laughter. Laughter painting the walls of the room a sunflower yellow, the innermost petals of jubilation. Laughter crumpling stone features, bending stature as you let go, heartstrings ascending by helium balloons I prayed would never fall back to earth. Stay, up there, your guard left down to collect dust. Stay free, crinkled eyes of today, for I am infatuated with your abandon.

But when the joy dies, I watch as they reach the ceiling and begin a tragic descent, the colors of your face desaturating back to skin, quiet translucence, voice fenced and trapped in a cavern throat, its key tossed into the rivers of temporary loss.

Speak to me.

You’ve forgotten.

Haunt me,

my silent secret.