you tried so hard to be a girl, didn't you?
you tried to help them like you.
you tried to get them to stop.
you tried to keep her as your friend.
but did it help?
was it worth it?
did you succeed?
you never asked for anything.
you never asked for help.
you always pretended to be happy, even the morning after you tried to slit your throat.
you always blamed the cuts on your cat.
you stayed with the friends who manipulated you because at least you had someone.
you cried to yourself every night because of how much it hurt.
because nobody cared.
because they weren't seeing you.
you kept telling yourself
that it was almost over.
but it never was.
oh, how i wish i could go back in time and tell you
that it would get better.
that you would find people who loved you.
that you would come out,
you would cut your hair,
and you would be happy for a while.
oh, how i wish i could tell you not to trust her.
she seemed nice but she ****** us up.
oh, how i wish i could tell you
that you should have been yourself
even if they hurt you.
because it was so, so worth it in the end.
oh, how i wish i could tell you that they weren't worth your time.
that you were amazing the way you were.
that you didn't have to change yourself for them.
you had to be yourself.
the right people will come.
oh, dear younger me,
how i wish i could tell you that it gets better.

When I was little,
I thought I’d grow up
and become someone
that glittered.

Not famous.
Not rich.
Just soft.
Just full of light.
Someone who laughed without flinching
and felt safe in her own skin.
Someone who saved the day
and got to sleep through the night.

I thought growing up
meant choosing your favorite ice cream
at midnight,
meant late-night dances in the kitchen,
meant freedom with a ribbon tied around it.

I didn’t know
it meant silence in hospital beds
and scars you don’t show.

I didn’t know
that being alive would ever feel
so close to being lost.

I didn’t imagine this.

When I was nine,
I made wishes on stars.
I believed in fairy godmothers,
second chances,
and that every sad ending
was just a chapter
before the miracle.

But my miracle must’ve gotten stuck somewhere
between foster care statistics
and the wrong people with the wrong intentions,
between school hallways
and rooms where no one listened
until I screamed.

I didn’t think
growing up meant learning
how to be quiet enough
to stay safe.

Didn’t think it meant
counting calories
and skipped meals
and mistakes you can’t scrub off.

Didn’t think
it would be this hard
to get out of bed
on a Tuesday.

No one told me
that sometimes the monsters win.
And they don’t have fangs
or claws—
just names and job titles
and the ability
to be believed.

The girl I used to be
wouldn’t recognize me now.
She’d ask why I stopped painting,
why I’m always tired,
why I never dance in the kitchen anymore.
She’d ask
what happened to magic.
And I wouldn’t know
how to answer.

Because I don’t want to tell her
that sometimes the world
breaks you
before you have the words
to explain the damage.

That sometimes
you survive things
so dark
you can’t ever go back
to who you were
before.

And I don’t want to see her face
when I say that dreams
don’t come true
just because you want them to.

That no matter how bright your heart is,
there are places so cold
even hope shivers.

But still—
I hope she never stops wishing.
Because I don’t know who I’d be
if I didn’t remember
how she used to believe.

And sometimes,
on quiet nights,
I still look up
at the same stars
and wonder
if maybe
she’s still in there somewhere.

If maybe
there’s still time
to become someone
she’d be proud of.

I met my younger self for coffee.
That morning.

Only I never liked the taste then.
Like I still don't like the taste today.

I sit across from a wide eyed girl.
Dressed like she was attending a funeral.
With big dreams to become.
Everything they never thought she could be.

Her smile filled with hope.
With a single question in her mind.
"Did we make it?"
She's too excited to stay still.

I sipped the tea I ordered.
While she is served hot coco.
That reminds her of better days.

She thinks she knows everything.
So it's hard to tell her she doesn't know enough.

Her smile I know hides.
A million secrets.
She puts on a good facade.

It would **** her if I told her.
All things they did.
The men she met.  

Yet if I told her we went to a theater in london.
With friends we never thought we'd find.
She'd scream out with glee.

But it's not my place.
To mess with time and space.
So I saved the good stuff as a secret.

All I whisper.
All I can say.
"We made it out alive."

She stares out of the window in disbelief.
Wanting to have heard much better news.
I take her hands in mine.
"Your better days are still to come.
We have so many more dreams than we did before."

She smiles through the disappointment.
As her phone begins to call.
We still keep our phones on silent.
Because we never liked the noise.

Keep your soft soul
it’s very delicate and pure
Stay gentle with yourself so you don’t feel pain when going through guilt
Remain kind to people who have done you right in life
And most importantly
don’t let the ugly truth of the future
make you feel bitter in the present

For I have discovered how our future looks and now my eyes feel deceived

Dear Little One,
I know things were hard for you
The kind of hard that forced you into adulthood before you were ready
Parts of you were stolen
You never deserved that
You were a gentle light, a precious child
I know you still cry out, reach for hands that wouldn’t take yours
Reach for love that every little one deserves
I am here now
I will let you cry in my arms
I will let you exist in your full feelings
I will hold you so tightly that you breathe relief at being held
Little One, you are precious
You are deserving
I know it took me a while to find you in the dark
But I am here now
And I will be here forever
With all my love,
Bigger One

the bath soap scent from my childhood.
the one my mother
would bring home every sunday;
for me to wash but never feel clean.
it stings,
but no longer seeps into cuts like antiseptic.
it smells like sorrow,
loneliness, and pain
yet the scent on my skin doesn’t make me sad.
i think of the girl and what the girl would think of me.
how far we’ve come;
and how we share the same scent on older skin.

and i hope for the child
who is no longer a child
who is now older than her abuser
to mourn the child inside her that doesn’t stop crying for salvation
to no longer feel his touch
through each hand to explore her body
to feel clean when she scrubs
her skin til it’s raw
to put down the blade before
it opens her up to so much more
i think about her when i bleed
though i don’t bleed for the same reasons now