letters written to my self on this day.

Dear Body.
I have been trying to rub you away like a rash
forcing you away from my bones.
 
Dear Breasts.
You remind me that I’m not       who I think     I am
I tried to explain to my mother, who gave me my first dose
That sometimes we need to knock on parts of our body
to see if anyone or anything   is really home
 
Dear Skin.
I think about finding a mate who can handle all these bruises burned into my osteoblasts.
A human who does not ask me to apologize for a past
that I chose and still confess to.
One who realizes the necessity of translating what existed into what exists.
Are scars just an alphabet that can be erased with proper creams and rubber-eraser tips?
 
***
What I was and what I am engage in a battle.
My body is a war zone, but it is also a skyscraper reflecting light and history.
My body is a question mark, but it is also a semi-colon separating my frayed parts.

Dear Amy (sic),

Here is the thing. I find you extremely persistent. You have a difficult time letting go of things. You fall in love so easily. And when you love, it scares you toward an exit sign. None of this is going to be simple. As wrinkles form and parts push their way off of you, you will still find yourself living inside skin that screams out new versions of itself everyday.

You are like a fancy phone: often running out of batteries, swiped at and (possibly) in need of an upgrade. But you are also like the moon: magical. And the sun: dangerously difficult to make eye contact with, but rewarding in your gaze. 

I am tapping you on the shoulder. I am trying to get your attention. I want to make you that mix tape you always beg for to remind you the importance of remaining.

1. The Winner Is, Mychael Danna and Devotchka
2. Comptine D’Un Autre Ete (La Demarche), Yann Tiersen
3. Sweetness, Pearl and the Beard
4. Home, Edward Sharpe
5. Colours, Graffiti6
6. I Will Wait, Mumford and Sons
7. Evelyn, Gregory Alan Isakov
8. Made to Love, John Legend
9. Dancing on my Own, Robyn
10. Quelqu’un’m’a dit, Carla Bruni

There may be a time when you look outside and start to see your self more. More and more people around you are presenting themselves in ways that represent their inside on their outside. This excites you. I know this because your face glows each time you see a human who blurs the boundaries of what a woman is or how a man should be. You are not so old that you are engraved and complete. There are so many more books you need to read and poems to write. So, can you stay? How about you stay?

Dear Scar.
I’d be wrong to promise no more siblings. We fall. We scab. New skin forms. A scar arrives. But how about I try not to give birth to anymore on purpose. 
 
Dear Gender.
It’s ok. You don’t need to footnote yourself. You can reference yourself as a punctuation mark. You have nothing to do with why your heart got hurt. There is someone out there who will love your awkward, your blur, your fear. You are expanding. How beautiful to arrive at a moment of clarity. Keep walking and you will find others who understand. State your boundaries, so there will be no more break-ins. Stop giving your key away. Move slower when trying to exhale out your particles. 
 
Not everything      not everyone       can be put inside a box, so start getting more comfortable with being outside. 
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2 responses to “letters written to my self on this day.

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