Dear 7th grade English teacher,
Thank you for telling me I should give up on writing

Since no one cares about what I have to say anyways
So that I realized who my target audience would become.
Thank you for making me cry

On the floor of the school bathroom nearly every day
So I could see myself at my worst and know I would only go up from there.
Thank you for saying I had no hope to accomplish anything in life
So I would later set a goal to prove you wrong.
And thank you for wearing me like a gold medal

Each time anyone asked who your best student was
So I learned early what a manipulative two-faced person really looks like.

Dear Mikenzie
I'm sorry I wasn't a better little sister.
I'm sorry that I accidentally left your Gameboy out in the rain that one time,
But I still feel like that was partially your fault

Considering you left five year old me alone outside with it

And never told me that it wasn't just a regular toy that could brave the weather.
I'm sorry that I couldn't stop you from dating Ramon,

Or Dylan,

Or Matt,

Or Derrik,

Or John
And I'm sorry that the best thing I could come up with from eight years old

To seventeen years old to heal your broken heart
Was "I'm sorry" and a long hug.
I'm sorry that when my dad got involved in your life, everything went wrong.
I'm sorry that when I was born, mom paid more attention to me,
And I'm sorry for taking away from so much of your childhood.

Dear dad
I'm sorry,
But I am not going to be a surgeon
I am not going to be an accountant
Or a pediatrician
Or a medical novelist.
I'm going to wrap a present in festive paper
Dyed in metaphors that say
"Go fuck yourself"
In more ways than the average person could imagine
And I'm gonna deliver that message to conservative ears
Through vibrations in the air
That will beat against their dammed up ear canals
Until that Stone wall breaks

And their chemically treated water plants

Are flooded by actual sense for the first time in their lives.
Sense that you and I have always talked about, dad!
Like how racism isn't an opinion,
And no matter how many times someone may try to justify their rape joke,

It still isn't appropriate,
And who someone marries

Is no one's business but theirs,

And how no one wants to take anyone else’s guns,

We just want to make it a little harder for psychopaths to get a hold of them.

I want to fight about how people get so worked up about it

That it kind of implies that they’re worried

That they won’t pass a mental health test

Which,

Morbidly,

Is really,

Really,

Concerning.

Dear Donald Trump,
Review the previous stanza.

Dear society,
I'm going to do this,
I'm going to make it,
I'm going to change people,
I'm going to have an impact.

I know that I am smart,
Despite only being 17.
I know that I work hard,
Even if I am a video game playing millennial,
I know that I am beautiful,
Stretch marks,

double chin,

acne,

frizzy hair,

glasses,

chipped nails,

moderate lisp,

jiggly stomach and all.

Don't tell me what I have done.
Don't tell me what I am doing.
Don't tell me what I will do.
Just sit down,
Quit policing my etiquette and appearance,
and give me the chance to show you.

 

Yours truly,

Bella