you write a poem for your teenage self

but you don’t know where to start, because you’re still figuring it out. you want to give her all the answers. you don’t have them. you want to reassure her that she’ll be happy. that her life will be full. that she will write and travel. that she will be kind and generous and capable. you want to tell her that her father will read every poem she will ever write, that he’ll be proud. you want to tell her that her mother will teach her to bake, will give her rolling pins and pie dishes and silicone mats until she runs out of room. you want to tell her that her brother will be the smartest person she ever meets. that her sister will be kind, will make her laugh more than anyone else. you want to tell her that she will be in love with someone who loves her, too. who rubs her back and always kisses her goodnight and thinks she is beautiful. you want to tell her that she will feel beautiful. that she will be glad she is here. existing.

you want to tell her all these wonderful things – but also that she will have hard days. days when she will feel stuck, when she will struggle with herself. this is okay, you want to tell her. this is normal, you want to say. but you don’t know how.

instead you tell her this: your best friend will cry the morning of prom, and you won’t understand how she could be unhappy with flaming curls cascading down porcelain skin. a phoenix rising from the ashes of the black gown you will watch her try on at the mall. she will look ethereal. you will wear a dress you buy for twenty-five dollars at an off-price retailer, one that doesn’t fit you. because nothing fits you. it will hang off your bones, match the veins protruding from starved skin. you will feel clumsy. you will feel unpretty. you will look at your best friend and wish she could see herself through your eyes. what you will not do is extend that same grace to yourself. you should.