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A Letter From Me To Me

My softness

was a beauty

that watches itself

in the funhouse mirror -- 

you -- 

and saw itself so

strangely and heart-

breakingly

Devastating. 

My bones may be made of glass

that you so conveniently and

brutally

shattered.

 

Joke’s on you.

 

My shards are sharp enough

to make you

bleed black.

 

 

​

 

I am the bad alcohol

in the sealed cracked bottle

that you grabbed by the neck

and banged on corners

edges rocks spikes

and added cracks to

its countless scars

and burst open into

fallen shards

and laughed.

But honey, my alcohol is

so bad it hurts

so strong it burns

so spiked it dares

you to walk over its shards.

I dare you to walk over me.
 

 

​
 

My Mom asked me if I was in love.

I didn’t know how to respond

I didn’t know what being in love was

Or what love was

At all.

 

My Mom asked me if I loved you.

I didn’t know how to say yes

I didn’t know how to say no.

 I think I love you,

but I would be happy if you stop loving me

as long as you’re happy,

So I guess I don’t love you the way they say I love you’s?

 

My Mom asked me if I was scared to lose you.

I said no this time.

I said, Mom, we only lose what we possess.

And you have never been a possession,

and I have never held you to keep.

 

I asked my Mom if she ever loved the way I see love,

She didn’t know how to say yes

She didn’t know how to say no

And I think she just lost

Another piece of her crumbled soul.

​







 

To me of recent years, of harder times, of brokenness, of loss, of pain:

 

You are indestructible. You are made of hell and high waters. You yield but never break, bend but never snap, stretch thin but never, ever tear. 

 

You are so beautifully flawed, even though right now you may see all flaws and no beauty. You have a heart that, regardless of all that have and will come your way, is never pierced with spite. You have a mind of admirable creativity and spiraling depths -- depths that scare away many; but remember, love: many are afraid of heights. You have hands that hold and feet that climb, lips that kiss and eyes that shine. 

 

You are a work of art, whose every fold and gap is calculated, detailed, and marveled. You are a soft sculpture that, no matter how others may try to stomp on and punch at, refuses to be molded. No one can shape you but you. No one can claim your body but you. No one can speak your voice but you.

 

At the end of the day, you will realize that the only thing you have control over is your well-being. Do not, I beg you, do not let that go. Do not drive it to the edge of insanity. Do not treat it like others have been treating you. You need it. It needs you. It is not your battle -- it is your treasure.

 

Breathe in. Your body is your home.

Breathe out. Your mind is your home.

Breathe in. Your heart is your home.

Breathe out. You are your home.

You are my home.

 

You, my dear, are home.

 

 

​
 

I am made of loud whispering winds

I twirl, I spin, I push and I pull --

I fill up your lungs until you are full

Of any and nothing, of all and of naught.

 

Don’t you get it by now, my darling?

The choice has always been yours to make:

I can become the ripples on your lake

I can become the dead eye of your storm.

 

So go on,

 

Go paint your sins and go call me home

Go lock my shed and go watch me roam

Go etch my scars and white out my red

Bury my dawn and I’ll paint your sunset.

 

​

 

Look at your 

puffy eyes, 

shuffled hair, 

mismatched socks, 

scratchy throat, 

scattered brain --

What a mess!

What a beautiful, invincible mess.

WHAT

Scattered dots

WHERE

My mind, mostly

WHEN

May 2017 - present

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