To: Past Me
From: Future You

Hello, my past self.
I hope you’re doing well.
But then again,
I know you’re not.
Because I was you,
And you are me.

I know about all the smiles you’ve had to fake.
I know about all the silent tears your pillow is stained with.
I know about all the people you’ve loved and all you’ve lost.
I remember it all.

But listen,
It doesn’t get easier.
You will still go through hard times.
People will still leave you.
You will still feel sad sometimes.

It may not get easier...
But you do get stronger.
Strong enough to overcome it all.
The pain.
The tears.
The obstacles.

Small things won’t hurt you anymore.
Every rock in your way will turn into a pebble.
People will go and others will come.
But you'll be alright.

You’ll grow stronger.
You'll be wiser.
You'll get bigger (not in height though, we shall always be 5’2)
It may not get easier but you will be happy.
Of that I am sure.

So past self I tell you.
Dry your tears. You’re not alone.
You’ll be surprised of all you’ll overcome.
                                                                                         Love,
                                                                                         Future You ;)

I'm not a poet.
But if I were, i'd probably be a nocturnal one and i'd write about how on most nights my tongue is a tombstone, my throat a grave filled with regret,
and my voice is each grunt and whine I give my timed reflection as I avoid every mirror because I can't stand looking at myself...i'd tell...
I'd tell people that my depression is an ocean. Within it's waves, high and low...slowly but surely blanketing over me...dragging any broken
and lost pieces of my happiness back into itself, resetting the sand that is my skin so tomorrow you can't see the holes that were there.
Yeah.
I'm not a poet.
But maybe if I were, i'd write a song about her. It would tell a story about how on days when the sun blinks and everything around me is grey; and the
world is stained with my fears...she. is. the honey-warm scent after a summer rain, an evening primose before the tempest, and the quiet cerulean air in an earthquake...
she's...every hue of a pacific sunset.
I'd sing about how she was the moments between each tide that kept me warm; how she was the sun that fed the daisies in my throat reminding me
that life is possible.
I'm no poet.
But if I were then this paper would be the towel I dried my heart with, the words would be all the unspoken dreams of my insomnia, and the pen was the
blade used to cut this heart so I could bleed my everything to you...I swear. If I were a poet, i'd whisper every vowel i've been given that completes me
into stardust. Sprinkled into the cosmos to someday create a world where the ocean never raged. A world where there were just enough clouds and no
earthquakes...then again...where's the poetry in that?

I was there when each and every one of them broke her
I picked her up
I fed her
I comforted her to sleep every night
I woke her up, dressed her up, made her look pretty
And whenever she broke down again, I listened
At the end of the day, I was always there for me

the first time I ever saw you
I knew
I knew,
I could like you for a long time
and that your face would always be engraved
in my mind,
in my heart.

perhaps, I wasted too many time.
perhaps, I am a little too late.
but I never forget the first time I ever saw you.
I knew,
I knew.

Another person has fallen victim to the heartbroken syndrome.
Not me,
but the girl who’s sitting next to me at the bus station at 1 am in the morning.

The first symptoms she showed were slight.
Constantly staring down at her phone.
Desperation seemed to reflect on her face.
As if waiting for something.
A call.
A text.
Anything.

I knew she had reached stage 2 when she abruptly stood up.
Paced back and forth.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Not caring about anyone who watched.
Calling someone who clearly would never answer her.
The more she dialed, the more sick she got.

She escalated pretty quickly to the final stage once she bursted into tears.
Looking for reasons as to why everything went wrong.
Sobbing her eyes out.
As her body and feelings gave out.
Letting fall one last tear.
While she gave her last sigh.

She’s not the first victim I’ve seen.
I myself have fallen prey to this disease.
It is an illness that everyone is bound to have,
at least once in their lifetime.

And she will have to learn that,
The only cure,
The only antidote,
The only remedy,
Is time.