Dear Younger Me.

The days ahead are dark.

There will be points
Where you will close your eyes
Burning, stinging, tear-torn eyes
And it will look no brighter
When you open them again.
You will reach for the light switch
Only to discover
The dual bulbs
Clustered under the shade
Are doing all they can already.
You will walk upstairs
In the witching hour
The dark scary still hour
And even though there is nothing
Nothing logical to fear
The still scary, dark hour
And the night will surround you
Press in on you
And you’ll swear each step is a mouth
Waiting to swallow you alive.
You will leap from light switch to light switch
Because the dark
The cursed, smothering dark
Is a fate worse
Than sinking into a molten floor.


Dear Younger Me.

The darkness does not win. Not against the light.
Remember that.

Even if you, yourself, don’t feel light.
Even when you feel bogged down
Like the weight of a thousand worlds
Rests on your shoulders
And you’re slogging through swamp mud, besides.
There is light, and hope, and peace
Peace like none you have ever known
Waiting on the other side.
And if I could spare you the tears
The ache that tears your chest inside out
The lump that threatens to stay
Choking you
Breath by breath
Forever
If I could spare you that
You would never grow.
You would never become me.
Broken. Imperfect. Beautiful.
Stronger, holding tight to the Savior’s hand.
I wouldn’t trade all the stars to be you again, me.
But someday you’ll get here. April 2018.
You’ll write a poem. Me to you. Heart to heart.
You’ll look around. You’ll look back.
And there will be light again.