Dear self,
I found your old book.
The book of lines and ink that pulled you out from where you were.
Poetry saved you.
I re-read the poems you had marked.
And cried.
The poems you marked broke my heart.
Love, and deceit. Trust, and heartbreak.
You will know love. You will know trust. You will know happiness.
If I traveled back and told the girl reading those poems this,
She wouldn’t believe me.
She would’ve laughed.
Went to bed.
And died a little more inside.