A letter to me.
Not the younger me,
or the older me,
but me.
The one fighting today.

It's a letter to my hands,
for all they have created,
many ideas that have flourished,
even this poem made elated.

It's a letter to my feet,
for all they have carried,
standing when I fall,
rising when I am buried.

Even a letter to my eyes or ears,
for everything they've seen or heard,
grateful for what has been blocked out,
creating room for more that is cured.

These key parts of me,
while I could thank them more,
help me through the day,
even when I am sore.

Just a letter to my body,
forgiveness I would wish,
for all the scars and shame,
that I will never miss.

Forgive me for not loving you,
the way I know I should,
one day you will know,
of all how much I could.

It's a letter to my mind,
a place that is haunted,
whispers that beg,
wishing to only be wanted.

I've cursed you daily,
wanting you to be better,
but never really thinking,
until I wrote this letter.

Yes you can be bad,
yes you can be sick,
but you are still my mind,
and that is something that will stick.

But sometimes you have thoughts,
that are wild and free,
creating ideas,
that can fill will glee.

So for that you are wanted,
for all I take for granted,
for staying by my side,
for not leaving me stranded.

As I get older,
and the more that I see,
on how I should not treat my body,
so pitifully.

Though it has its flaws,
a bad day,
a rough night,
I will always say,
that I need to treat it right.

So this is a letter to me,
the one living today,
to never forget,
why things are this way.

For my body is not perfect,
and neither is my mind,
but it always teaches me lessons,
on how to always be kind.