Dear 14 year old me,
Don’t worry little one,
your wrists will scab over and heal,
and your heart will learn to sing again.
Someone will come along,
and he will love you enough for you both.
He’ll see the sky in your eyes,
and constellations in the freckles
and moles on your thighs.
He’ll tell you his life story,
and soon you’ll open up
the darkest parts of your past,
because he promises he’s not
afraid of the dark.
He’ll kiss parts of you that you hate
when you look in the mirror,
and write you into poetry
designed to make you look perfect,
because in his eyes, you are.
He won’t heal all your wounds,
nothing ever will, but he’ll help.
You’ll still have nights when you’re exhausted,
and have no energy left to care.
But he’ll wrap his arms around you,
and he’ll stroke your hair the way you like,
and you’ll find comfort in his heartbeat.
He’ll kiss the mole under your left eye,
and you’ll hold back tears, hoping he won’t notice
until you remember he won’t judge you,
and will just hold you tighter.
The nights of crying alone
into patches of blood will soon be over.
So try not to cut too deep,
and throw away those extra pills,
instead of swallowing them.
He’s out here waiting for you,
just as lost and suicidal as you are.
Hold on little longer,
things will get better.
Fredrick Musadye (just-a-penis-with-a-dream)