Dear future whoever you are,

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry if I can't seem to say the words "I love you" without stumbling over the words, or saying them really fast and running away, or them sounding stiff and forced like I don't really mean them, because I can assure you

I do

But you see the thing is

My family was never big on "I love you's"

Or affection for that matter, you see

We prefer "make sure the doors locked" being thrown over a shoulder as it rushes out the door

Or the ever so entertaining " put your seatbelt on, before I decide to test my breaks" as we are driving down a road

And just let me apologize in advance if you ever tell me that you, love me

And I freeze

It's not from shock I swear, okay maybe it is, a little bit, depending on the situation

But its probably mostly due to not being used to hearing it

I mean in the fifteen years I have under my belt so far I can't recall ever  hearing them said to me

So forgive me if I freeze, and then give an awkwardly delayed " I love you" back

And just know this

No matter how awkward or delayed or stuttered or fast it's said

I only say those three words when I mean them

And it's hard for me to say them

It really is

So dear future whoever you are

Please understand

I may not have heard them much

But I understand the meaning behind them

And just know

I love you, too

You are the worst thing that has ever happened… to my poetry

You see I used to write poems that make people want to set fire to the world, and cry an ocean. I used to write about death, and depression, and hope, and how I am finally okay with who I am. I use to write to inspire, I used to write about the demons under my bed and the ones in my head. I could write poems about my fears and my dreams and how ****** up this world is. But lately, all I have been about to write about is you.

My poetry has gone from a **** the world mentality to what ever this sappy stuff I have been writing lately is called.

Roses are red, violets are blue, my poetry has gone to **** and its all thanks to you

My poems are about your smile and how it can light up a room better than 1,000 suns

They are about how I get butterflies every time I see you and how there are fireworks when we kiss

They are full of overused analogies, like fireworks and butterflies

My poems are about how your eyes are like coffee, and how I love coffee, and how I love you.

They have gone from being about how sometimes I get so scared of everything my heart beats out of my chest being are about how my heart skips a beat when you say my name

They have gone from being about the problems with our society to being about how my problems tend to disappear when I am with you

They have gone from how music is my catharsis to how you are, and how when you play music I lose the ability to breathe correctly.  

They use to be about how I am afraid. How I am afraid of being afraid, I am scared of failure, I am scared not doing anything with my life, I am scared of spiders, I am scared of things changing. But all I can write about is how I am scared of losing you and scared of driving you away.

My poetry is about our stupid jokes

They are about how terrified I am that you are going to see me differently when you find out how ****** up I am

They are about how cute you are when you are sleepy and also how weird you are after the clock strikes 12

You see, I have a reputation to uphold. I am the depressing and angry poetry girl, but I can’t be that when you make me so ******* happy.

My poems are about all night video calls and awkward first kisses

They are about how no amount of time is nearly enough

They are about how we are pretty much the same person but with different faces

My poems are about your hair and how much I love it even though its always getting in the way

My poetry is about how you are the only person that manages to give me **** while simultaneously telling me I am cute

Don’t you see what I mean? You are the worst thing to happen to my poetry, but one of the best things to ever happen to me.

Someone once asked me If I was okay.
I can’t remember the context of the question, or the person who asked.
But I can remember how I answered.
Could remember the way my mind thought of thousands of answers.
Could remember wanting to say no.

Heart pleading and begging, just let them in. While my mind told my heart to shut the hell up.  
Can still remember, heart ignoring the mind, screaming tell them.

Tell them how much it hurts to breathe, that every breath you take, is like trying to breathe in the thick black smoke from a fire. Even though theres something still kicking inside you that fights so hard for every little breath.

That your skin itches every time you see a knife because, even though you've never used one on yourself before, you wonder how good it would feel dragged across your skin, painting lines of barley there control with your own blood.

That you can’t lay on your side because sometimes you can hear your heartbeat that way and yours, it irritates you.

That there are two bottles of prescribed pain pills sitting on your nightstand and sometimes you just want to sleep.

That, No, you’re not as strong as you pretend to be and no, you’re not afraid of the monsters in your closet anymore, because the ones inside your head are much worse.

That you’re tired of lying awake at night staring at the ceiling as you remember every little mistake you’ve ever made.

I also remember my minds reminder that its not their burden to bear
I remember the most clearly pulling on the mask, I have spent so many years perfecting over my face, giving my best plastic smile and stating confidently, careful to keep the shake out of my voice,
“Of Course”.

I cannot look at myself in the mirror. Staring back are huge thighs, massive shoulders, a bulging stomach. Staring back are two disgusting eyes, horrible plain hair that can only be contained in an elastic. Staring back are two hips who cannot fit into a pair of skinny jeans my mother wore when pregnant. Staring back are calves that resemble toothpicks one moment, and guitar cases the next. Staring back are ankles that cannot be distinguished from the guitar cases. Staring back is someone I do not know.
I have not seen myself in the mirror in years. Instead, all I can see is this disgust, fat, hatred, loathing. All I can see is the time when I had to wait for a store clerk to find a size 14 dress, not put out in front to maintain their perfect size ideals. All I can see is the number of boys who have asked me out, only to say “April Fool’s!” or go laughing back to their friends. All I can see is the look of disgust on my father’s face the first time I wore a leotard for dance, and then proceeded to tell me that I had better watch that buddha belly.
I realize that I have never been looking in a mirror. I have never looked in one. I have seen only what I have been told. I can see only ******* because some teenage boy decided that my smile at work was a “please, **** me.” I can only see thick, thunder thighs because someone on the bus thought it funny to run his hands up and down them. When I was 9. I see linebacker shoulders because I was called a boy from kindergarten until second grade when I started to finally look like a girl, whatever that means. I am called mother because my arms are not perfectly toned and stay in place when I move them around.
I am wondering when it went out of style to not see bones sticking out. I wonder when my body no longer was my body. I am wondering how a mirror could be turned into a portal to hell, showing you the worst possible things, and none of the good. I am wondering why I cannot look into a mirror without wanting to *****. I am wondering who told me to do this. I am wondering when this all started.
I look into a mirror, and I cannot see anything besides what I am told is me. I am told that I look fat in these jeans, and that I also look fat in those jeans. I am told that that dress makes me look pregnant. I am told that I should be grateful when any boy stares at me, as if I am a piece of meat. Whenever I walk down the street, I am not on parade for you. I am not a cat, do not call to me like one.
I was 9 the first time an old man tried to flip my skirt at a dance recital. Telling me to show a bit more leg when I hadn’t even hit puberty. I was 10 the first time that the word ***** came flying from an open car window. Walking alone, terrified of what might happen if those boys came back. I was 11 the first time that a boy commented on the size of my thighs, telling me he would like to be between them, with me having no clue what he was talking about. I was 12 the first time a boy groped my chest. At a Christian camp, while the boy was 15. I was 13 the first time that my *** was smacked as I walked down the hallway. I never found out who did it. I was 14 the first time that I boy tried to get me into his car to blow him. There were no repercussions when I reported this, except for me loosing friends. I am 15, and I have gotten so used to the sound of grown men hooting at me as I walk down the street that I sometimes forget not to take it as a complement.
I cannot look myself in the mirror and not see any of this from the past. Instead, all I see is the past. I see how years have torn at me, breaking the mirror, fixing it, putting the pieces back in the wrong places. I look in the mirror and I try to see the good. I stand in front of that broken mirror and admire the legs that can lift 400 lbs with ease. I look in the mirror and I see hands that can play bass guitar, baseball. I see arms that can lift my mother. I see a girl, not a boy, not an it, not a toy for you to play around with. I see eyes whose stare has made grown men tremble. I see a girl who was thrown into the fire, and then made into it.