Open Letter to Young Self:

(Open Letter to Young Self)
A Happier Version of Me Where I Can Let Go of the Past:

Should my ex call me up today and ask me to coffee to talk about what went wrong with us, I'd cry about it. I'd say yes and agree to meet him not because I still love him but because when he left me I thought I wouldn't ever love again and I held myself accountable as a failure. So I would say yes, in hope that someday I could forgive the beast of myself that arose out of a relationship that ended years ago but still stays to haunt my mirrors.

One singular person once sought me out to apologize for the actions of many. Actions that drove young hands, my hands, these hands to break open my skin every time I felt it was no longer satisfactory to express emotion in ways considered healthy. He apologized for telling me to die and I said the words I forgive you .

Since that day, the weight I placed on all of their shoulders left to settle on mine. Because I am still deciding whether or not I am worthy to forgive myself. They stopped hating me years ago, but I never could.

So many homes and yet my parents still question how it is I feel so lost. So many sleepless nights wrapped in fear like a comforter. Comforters are warm and deceiving, they make you feel like it's okay to never move again. These days it's just wrapped up in my own head, I used to have such big dreams. Mom, do you remember how I used to write books? Now I'm lost in my own words, and it feels like no one ever heard me. And I just know I could have been something brilliant.

18 year-old me screaming the Rebellion is Nigh, dyeing my hair black and piercing my septum so everyone could see the virgin pink of my soul turn into crossbone earrings and tights with skulls, lipstick so dark you could almost see the stars I painted on my tongue.

And those days, these days, everyday dusk falls on stories about the things I've been through, conversations never made and a life I sometimes wish I had but never lived, people with whom I would have clutched palms and the ones I'd never let break my heart.

So dear me of my past, present and highly likely the future: the one who had wet dreams about living in a story not composed by an author of mass self destruction but by a background character who never picked a fight. Dear my own manic pixie version of myself:

You could have stayed silent, never raised your fist or your voice. Never cried and never dyed your hair. You could have actually looked for love in the right places and maybe even passed high school with an acceptable GPA. You could have done everything they asked of you, you could have just moved on. You could have been beautifully boring.