A Letter to my Past Self

If I could sit there with you now

Your body coiled up on the floor,

All your seven years of life

Amounting to the aching in your side,

I would.

Trust me, I remember the taste of blood

That made its way from your hairline to the floor,

The way his boot met your side

When you were already on the ground.

Telling Mama won’t do anything,

She’ll choose him over you.

So tomorrow when she asks what happened

Just tell her that you fell.

I know you’re too young to understand suicide,

But the tight grip of death

Already has its hold over your mind.

Seven more years will pass

Before you can finally tell the truth.

But by then, my dear, it will already be too late.

Because your skin is torn,

Your spirit is broken;

Somehow you’ll turn into me.

So clean up the blood from your face, my love,

For today will not be the worst day.

You’ll see me again in the mirror, darling,

And I’ll see you in my sleep. 

This poem is about: 
Me

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