Dear 12-Year-Old-Me
Dear 12-Year-Old-Me,
Fifth grade begun while our life ended.
Not quite literally,
But when freedom is sacrificed,
What is the point of living?
Opportunities come rarely
Yet there were too many times
I didn’t seize the moment
Didn’t live in the present
Kept waiting for a better tomorrow
A better month
A better year
But it didn’t get better.
I still kept waiting.
Each opportunity
I kept waiting
For a less crooked spine.
Cowering in fear that it would worsen if I stepped outside
So I stayed inside the four walls of my room
Collecting more regret
As life lived outside
Of the frame of my window.
Then I turned 16
The doctor announced my fate
It finally would be better,
But not without a fight.
But it’s been 7 wasted years.
Gone.
I should have fought sooner.
From a room filled with tools and screws,
I woke from the crooked spined dream
The dream was my reality.
That reality is now my past
When I woke up, I was thirsty
Literally and metaphorically
My throat was quenched with apple juice
But my soul
Your soul
Our soul
Wanted more
Wanted out of that bed
Wanted to feel the wind
Wanted to feel a sense of accomplishment
Wanted to feel alive
Recover and rise above the curved spine
It finally would be better,
But not without a fight.
If a time machine could bring me back
I would tell you
To
Get
Out.
Your crooked spine
Does not
Define you,
Rule you,
Constrain your mind,
Or limit your abilities.
Live your life sooner than I did.
From 18-Year-Old-Me.