A letter to my present self.

You have a stack of books piled up on your bedside; Ink and words and meaning. Yet you're on your own. You're everything you never wanted to be and I'm sorry. I keep thinking it's somehow my fault. Maybe if I had loved you a little, forgiven you a little, glorified you a little, and protected you a lot, none of this would've happened. You close your blinds and look away, pretending that the world outside doesn't scare you a bit. So you get up and walk tall, and slip on another lie. I'm okay or am I? 
Rise, do rise. The sky will always allure but gravity will always pull you back to its embrace and keep you from flying. And may I say that your hair is less deranged now yet still smells like chaos from a distance?
Dance, do dance. You know the song of loss and life by heart, don't you? You know the words and oh how they slip away from your tongue with every stranger your soul entirely grasps. 
If I had met you in a dream I wouldn't dare wake up. You're ripe and life ascends within you. You're raw and your eyes are the farthest thing from a shelter.
Please understand that I am still not out of reasons to love you; that you're not easy to give up on. It's just that life makes us weary and we still have got so much to learn, but my god are we running out of time, and my god are we running out of love, and my fucking god are we too unholy to abstain. 

I know this girl, English heart and golden ribs. She reminds me of all the things I have got no name for. I can't stop looking at her. She speaks not when you expect her to. She speaks not to break the silence. If anything, silence is the closest I've ever got to knowing her. She speaks in a language you wouldn't understand, but would remember very clearly when you take a few steps away from her shadow. I can feel her presence even if we're almost too apart for our eyes to meet and here's what I once told them: if the curtains were drawn, you will know one way or another that her body's standing still behind. And when they asked how, I told them that she's quiet, but her heart isn't. They thought I'm mental but they don't know the first thing about me knowing the first thing about her. She's terrified of life, yet has all four elements that keep us from dying. She's killing me and I'm only halfway through her head. She's killing me, and I can't stop looking at her.

A poem my parents could have written if only they knew how to

this night,
this never ending fight
this flickering light 
inside the heart
that could have
but never did
ignite.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry but not quite yet.
Skin on bones and
together forever, forever together
what a shame 
and who's to blame?
silent.
leave me, break me, tear me
but not quite yet.