ONE.
Fuck it.
Stop worrying that you can’t
Spread your small hands wide enough to soothe your pain away
Or catch your tears to store in the riverbeds of your palms to remind you of the ocean
And season your wounds when your depression starts grumbling for more of your self worth
Don’t allow the salt to do more than accent the sweets you inhale,
The moments that make you thirsty for more.
TWO.
Don’t have staring contests with yourself in the mirror. You will lose.
More often than not watching yourself stretching your lips up
And hooking them onto the corners of your eyes
Does more damage than good.
THREE.
There is nothing wrong with you.
FOUR.
Maybe there is something wrong with you.
ONE.
Fuck it.
FIVE.
You are not tame--
Your parents thrust a torch into your hand
Inscribed Torch Bearer on the metal plate of your experimental lab rat cage
Whatever you survived would be inflicted upon your siblings
A drip feed from needles injecting awkward affection into your bloodstream
But you will squeeze your way out from between bars meant to cage you
Learn to patch yourself back up
So you can reach back in to others too young to defend themselves
SIX.
My mummy says I’m special every day.
SEVEN.
People will ask you how you developed as a unit of five--50 fingers and toes
Countless tears and screams and laughs bouncing around
A cacophony in your head
Suckled with trophies and state titles
Hard A’s on report cards bloodied with paper cuts and darkened by the exhaustion
Of nights that ended just shy of all nighters
Clumsily welded repairs,
Spare parts dusty with the must of another era, robotic perfection
One day you will no longer need the safety pins and gold stars to hold yourself together
You will recognize you run too hot for icy perfection.
EIGHT.
Is the number of times you need to count inhales and exhales
Tapping two fingers against the side of your temple
Rubbing the patch of skin above your collarbone
Your body is a temple. Multi-layered and curved like rice terraces.
Don’t be stone. Let your walls crumble. Send your battalions home.
You will quit sacrificing good food to pay homage to
The porcelain goddess who cares naught for your tears
Hard steel sharpened by the self hate you’ve truly come to nurture as of late
NINE.
The first time you cried on your ninth birthday will not be the last
But you will become a master mixologist with each passing year
Shaking sadness and laughter into a sour concoction
That you can happily cheers other people with.
Because no one’s life consists of only cotton candy skies.
One day you won’t need to sugar coat the rim of your glass
Or examine your apprehension before you allow yourself to fall into another’s arms.
TEN.
You will come to know heartbreak intimately.
You will let it burrow itself into your couch cushions
And invite it to perch on your nightstand for the night,
Allow it to cradle a tumbler of whiskey and whisper into your ear
That you will always be alone.
FOUR.
Maybe there is something wrong with you.
Maybe there is something wrong with you.
Maybe there is something wrong with you.
ELEVEN.
Sometimes there will be something wrong with you.
Sometimes you will be alone with your own heartbeat,
Echoing through the cavity that once contained your heard.
But I promise you, though you think you never quite got it back,
It’s hiding out on the sleeve of your sweater
Skipping along with you down the sidewalk
Pumping adrenaline to keep propelling you forward
As you race up staircases with friends
TWELVE.
You will learn to throw yourself back into new situations,
Twirling into the music instead of twirling your hair around your wallflower thumb
People will compliment you on your dancing. It will be astounding.
How can others not smile when you are letting yourself marinate in a moment
That you never want it to end?
TWO.
Don’t have staring contests with the mirror. You’ll get too good at it.
THIRTEEN.
Boys will take your stare as an implicit challenge,
Sparking a connection because you will be more confident in your intensity.
FOURTEEN.
Some days you will doubt yourself and your self worth.
ONE.
Just fuck it.
FIFTEEN.
Take mental health days when you need them.
SIXTEEN.
Stop trying so hard to throw away the parts of your life that don’t contain smiles
The parts that you would rather forget
On rainy days, gently coax them out of your rainy day box
So that you always remember where you’ve been.
SEVENTEEN.
Savor this year and the next, shine your own light upwards
Despite fearing it will be drowned out amongst the bright city lights
Fluorescent bulbs more brash than you could ever pretend to be
Know that you can pull yourself out of the darkness
That you can be your own hero
You will learn that you won’t need a prince to climb your crumbling towers
You will learn that, oftentimes, you can save yourself.