Dear Poetry,

Do you see?

There she goes

that innocent girl,

a rule follower and honest to a fault,

With a heart that doesn't even lay on her sleeve

but in her outstretched hand and in her eyes.

 

Never taken a sip of the poison

never breathed the cancer in and let it out again

never kissed and thereby never done more than kissing,

by all accounts she's unspoiled,

pure as the hope that was left in Pandora's box.

 

That purity of hers,

Or maybe I should say naivety,

is as blinding as the sun's rays are to her light blue eyes.

 

And, though you probably know,

That girl is sappy.

She cries at sad stories and melancholic movies,

absorbs Ted Talks and listens to Peace Corps podcasts.

More than anything though she aches.

She aches for the world

from her high tower and plans,

yearns for the day she can make a difference.

A difference beyond the borders of her small community.

 

If the world wants saving

Then she wants to be the one to save it.

She doesn't see that the world is out to corrupt her,

to twist her desires and the words she holds dear

until she doesn't recognize herself anymore.

At least,

that is what people tell her the world wants.

 

Did you hear?

They tell her that her ruin is inevitable.

It is her one and only destiny

and with where she's going,

she can't hold off the corruption much longer.

She'll lift the poison to her lips,

breathe in the cancer and let it out again,

have her kiss and private possessions given away

all because others want her to

and the world she loves won't accept her until she does.

Because until she does,

she won't be like them.

 

Well,

I recognize that girl.

In fact I don't just recognize her

I know her as the face reflected in my mirror

because I am her.

 

These are the things told to me

as my departure for college draws near.

They say sweet girl,

you can't stop it.

Just give in.

 

Their words could be a self fulfilling prophecy.

Even still I tell them no.

It won't go that way,

They can't be certain.

Because if they were certain,

they'd have given up all hope of protecting me

a long,

long time ago.

 

Ah.

 

There it is.

 

Here comes the realization.

 

I see that their words aren't out to wound me

or to try and tear me down before I've even begun.

I can see myself now as they see me.

I am the thing they never imagined could exist

in a world they feel is extremely twisted.

I am them before they were themselves now.

They tell me I will be corrupted

because they see themselves as corrupted.

They don't see themselves as I see them:

I think they are beautiful.

I think they are inspiring.

I think they are human,

and that all of those are the same thing.

 

For that reason I forgive them for trying to hurt me

before others could hurt me,

because they thought the words would be easier to bear

if they came from a place of love.

Indeed,

writing out their words has made them hurt less,

something I never thought possible

because I thought the only truth I'd find

was that the words of others are meant to hurt.

 

I am grateful for my new found freedom,

as now I can give those weary warriors of life comfort,

tell all that I appreciate their concern

instead of getting angry over nothing

and making words out to be my enemy.

 

Thus,

I owe you--my dear Poetry,

an apology

for doubting the liberation of letters strung together

To form a sentence.

And I owe you--my dear Poetry,

a thank you

for letting me get lost

and yet never too lost

so that I can always find the path

leading back to me.