Dear Future Self

Dear Future Self,

I am eight years old. My family

Weep every birthday because of

January. The month of loved ones

Relinquished and frostbite.

I am eight years old and disturbed

Gravel is nothing but your weary

Tyres and rubber eyelids. I am

Nine and gravel undisturbed is

Silence by your tombstone.

Yours Sincerely,

I hope it gets better.