Thursday, April 9, 2015

A Letter to My Future Self

Let me know what you think!


A painting hangs on the wall—
it’s slightly off to the right, and it sits
crookedly against the nail desperately trying
to keep it steady. Colors splash the canvas:
yellow blue red white.
Each color painted on at different points in a
life that doesn’t seem to be long enough.

Blue is for all the times you ever
wished you were something you couldn’t be, for
tears silently bleeding through pillowcases because
you didn’t want anyone to know what was wrong—
because you weren’t even sure what was wrong.
It’s a color you paint slowly, almost indifferently, and while
you despise the feeling of guilt or pain, you understand
that in order for your canvas to be complete—
the bad parts are necessary.

Yellow is for the times you let the good
slip under your fingertips, when you stopped for a second
and remembered that life is pretty damn great. You smothered
the brightness next to the blue, seeing how drastic the colors
were against each other. This yellow
is for the times you laughed so hard your heart exploded, for
each song that ever put goosebumps on your skin, for
moving on—for knowing you deserve to be happy, too.

Now, red:  red is the color you lathered between your palms
because you couldn’t handle only finger-painting—
the first time someone ever said
“I love you”
you covered the canvas of blue and yellow with crimson
in the center, in the spotless corners, creating
colors you never even knew you could see. You enveloped
yourself into the arms of others. The red is a reminder
to love and love and love and love, and—
while it’s important for you to care for
the people around you, of course, please
don’t forget to tell yourself that you’re
just as worthy as the ones you love wholly.

White is for all the colors in between, all the
missed footsteps and careful wishing. It’s for the time
you couldn’t help but run head first into a thunderstorm
because you wanted to feel the rain breathe. White is splashed,
plastered, painted on for every moment you were left
breathless or for every second you can’t explain.

So, the canvas is crooked—but there are spots
where your paint has yet to be found, and
there’s still some color left to create.

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