dear past me, the one who i know is dead and buried.

by Arianna G., 16

you know seeing him was not the first full bloom of spring,
why do you keep lying to yourself?
he was flames dancing atop your skin,
already marred by the chill of winter. 
even still, you hesitate to put out the fire.

tomorrow will come like sweeping winds,
flying up tattered leaves, becoming spirals in the sky,
but he will still long for summer. 
i know he aches to feel free, to live life with no pretense,
his wrists pleading for relief from invisible chains he swears you put on him.

and when you least expect it,

winter will knock on your door with fighting words, pained fifteen minute calls, and choked out sobs.
to want,
i know, is what makes us human.
you and i still crave the people who are the worst for us, slightly out of our reach, inches away from yearning hands and gasping lungs. 


you will carve out dates in calendars.
let tears cascade around you like spring’s waterfalls,
seek out summer’s delicate constellations,
mop the hurt away when winter’s wind licks your wounds,
and, find new love in autumn’s leaves clinging to your boots.

dear madly in love, naive me,
i know time will heal us both. 

– a letter from recovery

Sayreville, New Jersey