Letters Between Sundays

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  • Do You Need Me To?

    Do you need me to stop looking for you in every little thing I do?

    If so, I wouldn’t be able to do anything.

    I wouldn’t be able to brush my teeth without thinking about when we would do it together over the sink, me wearing your T-shirt to bed. I wouldn’t be able to light candles anymore. I would think about the memories of me coming over and you already having candles lit in your bedroom for me.

    I wouldn’t be able to go on walks without remembering the times we were inseparable, hands interlinked, me trying to match my walk with yours. I couldn’t go into stores without picking up items and thinking about what you would’ve thought or said. I couldn’t go down the Lego aisle without looking at the ones we wanted to do together.

    Do you need me to stop thinking you’ll reach out?

    Keeping my ringer up at all times, hoping you’ll call. Checking my phone to see if your name appears on my screen while tears roll down my cheeks. Thinking we would “bump” into each other at the grocery store and I’d finally get the chance to be in your presence again.

    Pulling into my driveway or driving down a certain dirt road, thinking I’ll see your car waiting for me. Thinking you need to see me as much as I need to see you.

    Do you need me to stop thinking about us?

    My brain wouldn’t have any thoughts.

    No more thinking about being better for the other person. No thoughts of our future together or the memories I’ve been waiting for us to make. No thoughts about growing together and becoming the best versions of ourselves for the relationship.

    Do you need me to forget you?

    I would have to take down our pictures around my apartment, collecting them and putting them in a box to hide away, hoping that if I had to do that, my feelings would follow.

    I would have to take our keychain off my keys, knowing I wouldn’t see the cherries resting on my knee while I drive anymore.

    I would have to give you your clothes back, knowing I wouldn’t have your scent to hold onto anymore.

    I would have to change the background on my phone. I would turn my phone on and no longer see the only person who loved me.

    I would have to change my password and forget when your birthday is, changing it to a day I don’t care about. I wouldn’t even want a password on my phone anymore if it wasn’t about you.

    I would have to clean out my fridge and pantry, getting rid of all your beers and protein pasta, knowing I never got rid of them because they’re something I have to remember you by.

    I would have to buy new sheets and burn the ones that our memories are creased into.

    How can I forget you if I’m sleeping on sheets we used to connect on?

    I would have to delete your pictures from my electronic photo screen. I couldn’t bear being in the living room and suddenly seeing a photo of us kissing appear. I would instantly drop to my knees.

    I would have to take you completely off my phone. No social media. I wouldn’t be able to keep looking at your reposts or seeing when you’re active.

    What would I do with the gifts I’ve already made you, knowing I’m supposed to give them to you next week?

    Do you need me to let go of you?

    I will peel my fingernails from where they’ve embedded themselves into your skin, one by one, even when every instinct in me screams to hold tighter.

    I will use every ounce of strength I have left to open my hands.

    If you need me to let go, I will suffer the empty palms. I will suffer the regret. I will suffer every morning my heart reaches for you before remembering you’re gone.

    I will turn the corners and survive you not being there.

    I will carry the broken heart.

    I will carry the love with nowhere left to put it.

    I won’t pretend it doesn’t destroy me.

    I won’t pretend letting go means I’ve stopped loving you.

    If you ask me to do anything, I will—even if it’s you telling me to let go.

    I will do anything for you because I love you.

    So I promise to loosen my grip. To stop lighting candles. To buy new sheets. To live with a broken heart.

    No fighting you on your decision.

    No more begging for hope.

    No more strings.

    If you need me to let go, I will.

    Do you need me to?

  • I Miss Tomorrow

    The instant excitement of knowing you’re waiting for me on Sunday mornings, waiting for me to jump into bed and seep into your body heat. The slow mornings of being tangled underneath the covers, collecting the love from each other’s hearts.

    The excitement I feel knowing you’re waiting for me disappears when walking through my bedroom doorway and the bed is perfectly made, knowing no one has slept here since yesterday. Walking past the bed, deliberately ignoring it, having to think, it wasn’t me who made it, and the person who did is coming back.

    The day starts to move, lifting each leg out of the cement to take another one. The first time in the day where something innocent makes me smile ear to ear, immediately reaching for my phone, having you on speed dial.

    “We’re sorry, the person you’re calling is not available.”

    The cement thickens.

    Living in an apartment that was made for two, replaying the memories in the walls when I smell the WoodWick candle lit on the entryway table. The depressing but yet comforting thought that your shadows are everywhere I go, but no limbs casting darkness in the Lego aisle of the store.

    Every emotional heartburn, you were always there neutralizing the stomach acid. Looking for the treatment for the pain, realizing you’re out of stock, hoping I have a refill soon.

    Knowing there’s a special occasion happening soon, and already having it planned out four months in advance, just for it to be canceled. Returning the items of deflated helium balloons and ripped wrapping paper, and a filled-out card with no room to spare.

    It’s the start of fall, when the trees begin to change colors. Reminiscing on memories we haven’t even made yet. Bundling each other up with scarves and traditions, knowing we’ll do this every fall. Picking out pumpkins that are similar to our head shape, laughing and bringing light to the gloomy autumn day.

    Coming home with tacky decorations, hanging each piece up with thankfulness. Wrapping ourselves as one on the couch with matching pajamas and watching a memory that hasn’t happened yet fade away into the stagnant living room air.

    Deciding what couple we want to dress up as for the scariest night of the year. Trying to be people who could never compare with our love. Knowing I’ll have to dress as my inner self, the scariest monster of them all.

    Walking into the kitchen with hot cider in our matching mugs we painted in Traverse City, chaotically trying to balance two Thanksgivings while making room for our own blueberry pie, sitting there untouched, knife by its side waiting to be cut.

    The academic milestone reaching the moment of victory, having the reward saved in a memory drive waiting to be opened. Knowing a celebration couldn’t be complete without the flame of the candle.

    The first snowfall appears, waking up to a shimmery glow, planning a day of being our childish selves. Tying snow boots and keeping the tradition of bundling each other up with scarves and dreams. Catching the interaction between our snow angels, fully aware of what we’re naive to.

    Rushing down the sled hill, holding onto each other. Looking back and noticing I have a one-person sled, and the two-person seat is at the top of the hill, waiting for the unison couple to retrieve it.

    Cold red button nose and shivering bodies getting warm under the covers, the fire in their chests that yearns for the other is unthawing the memories that are still frozen. Ready to be played when unthawed.

    Turning 23, becoming an adult takes time, but I will forever be childlike in your eyes. Innocent, naive, wide-eyed little girl. Feeling the safety in our closeness but the uncertainty from the distance.

    Having hopeful eyes when looking in the crowd, hoping to see you before blowing out my birthday candles. Knowing if this memory quickly unthaws, your hand would be on my thigh, taking pictures of the candle being blown out. The safety of you being close.

    We change the ghost decorations into the wonderful time of the year. Heading to a shop to find the Christmas tree that fits with our identity as a whole, taking it home and throwing tinsel on a dead tree. Grasping at the memory that hasn’t even happened yet.

    Will missing tomorrow ever stop? Mourning the memories we’ve made for our future selves, not knowing if they will ever happen. Knowing this time belongs to us, and the year we had, these memories would be our gift.

    Already having the memory of us ransacking the stores, trying to find the perfect gifts for one another, calculating what family has us first on Christmas Day.

    Christmas Eve would be all to ourselves, knowing one day what this night would mean for us.

    Yearning on the memories we almost had.

    Christmas passes, with all the planned memories, future memories that have been untouched.

    One full year, and it’s time to open the time capsule, filled with memories that already happened. Knowing this is the one day I don’t have to make up.

    Being partners while playing pool, not knowing who each other were. Being very intrigued by the other person’s stare. Cheating at the game, keeping secrets from others when we haven’t even shared secrets of our own selves.

    The memory of sitting on the steps, thinking, What will next year bring me? Not knowing that the person who is giving me their full attention would soon be it.

    That night changed the course of the future, holding onto the memory of being at the same place and the same time.

    Four a.m., and we’re in a stranger’s bed, communicating with each other like we’ve spent years apart. Not knowing we burned our skin onto each other, spending each day of the new year inseparable. Not knowing the misery and pain of ripping the skin away from each other halfway through.

    Waking up in the new year, wrapped in each other’s skin and bones like we’ve had this memory before. Knowing I wanted you for the new year.

    Trusting you with the heart I gave you. Letting you do anything to it because it was yours and no one else’s.

    This is the only memory that exists in missing tomorrow, the only memory I have of what’s to come. Knowing that night will either destroy me or create it all over again with you.

    I miss tomorrow, but what’s real is yesterday.

    Knowing this year is coming to an end, filled with memories we’ve created and yearned for, and coming home on New Year’s Day to an unmade bed.

  • Even Rainstorms Have Beauty in Them

    You know those mornings when you wake up and it’s darker than usual in your apartment? Outside is gray. The sun isn’t shining through your blinds, casting a shimmering bliss onto your walls. Clouds fill the air, and you hear the rumbling sound of thunder in the distance.

    You know what’s coming—the gush of wind pressing against your windows and the heavy raindrops hitting your ceiling. But the thing the clouds don’t tell you is what kind of storm it’s going to be.

    When I was a little girl, I was afraid of the thunder and the way the lightning lit up the city for two seconds. I would be so scared that my eyes created a rainstorm of their own.

    As I got older, I found peace with the rain. No more shaking under the sheets or crying myself to sleep.

    But with you, I see the beauty in the rainstorms.

    Watching the sky turn from ocean blue into the darkness of the world. Standing on the porch, listening to the rain hit the pavement as we both smile. Even though we lose power inside the apartment, we still have light from each other.

    The romantic feeling of lighting candles in the corners of nothingness.

    The nights when the storm would wake us from the shattering sound of thunder, feeling the coldness in the air from the water droplets outside. You showed me there was still warmth underneath the cold. You were my sheet—the one I covered myself with to protect me from the wickedness.

    The slow mornings of waking up to the pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof, making our morning ritual feel more sincere and valued.

    Beauty comes in all shapes and sizes.

    Feeling the drops of water on your delicate skin when we’re gloomy ourselves brings comfort and peace. It makes you appreciate the rain. Standing outside in front of each other, not knowing what we’re doing, and somehow the rain pulls us back to each other.

    After the storm comes more beauty.

    The sun peeking through the clouds and onto the wet grass, making it look like there are diamonds scattered across the field. Feeling the sun’s rays on your skin, a wave of warmth covering your body. The rainbow that casts itself through the clouds, making you feel like a child again, wanting to go chase it.

    Even rainstorms have beauty in them.

  • What If.

    I don’t know why I can’t do what I need to do to survive, even if it’s hurting me.
    I know it’s not good. I know I’m hurting myself. I know.

    But can’t you see I’m just trying to stay alive?

    You think differently. You think getting better is the number on the scale going up, not developing more scars on my wrists and thighs, not having a six pack every night.

    What if I don’t want to get better?
    What if I want to be skin and bones with black bags under my eyes?
    Wearing long sleeves in the burning heat of summer, not remembering my days or my nights?

    What if I’m not addicted to cutting and drinking and being thin…
    what if I’m addicted to being a mess?

    Letting the outside look like the inside.

    They say your room looks like your mind.
    What if I take that same mindset and let my body look like it’s deteriorating?

    My mind is already mush, fogged by bipolar and malnutrition.
    Maybe if it shows physically, it will finally feel real.
    Like my thoughts have a purpose.

    Maybe if I have dry blood on the inside of my clothes, I can finally see the emotions I can’t explain.
    Maybe if the number on the scale drops low enough, I’ll finally feel worthy.

    Worthy of having these thoughts.
    Worthy of being like this.

    Maybe if I drown everything with something sweet, I can feel the sadness rise up just enough to almost spill over.

    What if it’s okay not to be okay?
    What if it’s okay to finally give up?

    Not having to be perfect.
    Not having to be tired every day from fighting your own mind.

    I’ve always known my worst enemy is me.

    So what if I let her win?

    What if I let it take over—
    controlling everything I consume and everything I throw up,
    whether that’s food or words.

    Why can’t I feel worthy without my head in a toilet, my legs burning in the shower?

    Why can’t I feel happiness unless I’m on cloud nine with no sleep in my veins?

    Why can’t my mind be clear without empty bottles on the table?

    Why is it that I either fight myself and be miserable,
    or let the darkness take over and still be miserable—
    just with something to numb it?

    Why can’t my mind be blank?
    My canvas be white?

    What if I had a loving family who didn’t hurt me as a child?
    What if I didn’t bury my face in the freezer trying to numb the burns she left?
    What if I wore pink shirts with daisies on them instead of skipping past that version of myself?

    Maybe in order for any of this to make sense…

    what if the answer is addiction?

    because no matter how I try to solve myself, it’s the only thing that makes the equation work.

  • The Cage Was Never Locked

    The freedom to feel the wind beneath your wings, the ability to fly high in the sky in daylight. Being the early bird who goes looking for worms in the wet soil after a night of storming, chirping in the willow tree, ruffling my beautiful blue feathers, watching the day turn into night.

    The peace in your mind when knowing you can fly at any time and navigate anywhere you go. No control, no cage, no worry. Just freedom.

    Building a nest in the willow tree with sticks and debris, building an environment where I can be a bird of my own. I wasn’t a perfect bird—I had wounds that were bleeding, but they were controlled. I lived this long with bullet holes in my wings, and yet I was the loudest bird in the willow tree, chirping every morning and licking my wounds.

    The night of the storm, my feathers were drenched with the droplets of the sky. Not being able to fly back to the willow tree, stopping at an unknown destination. Being lost, hearing thunder, and still having hope I’ll make it back home to the willow tree.

    The unfamiliar feeling of not knowing the other birds, not knowing what lives in this tree. Finding a branch to hold onto, I closed my eyes, imagining the path I’ll take when flying in the sky—the wind beneath my wings, the feeling of freedom.

    The morning came, and the sky was still grey. The wind blowing in all directions and the rain falling heavy around me.

    Looking inside the tree, all the other birds had birds of their own, cuddling into each other’s necks, making sure they were okay. The feeling of not having someone next to you when there are storms.

    Finding a beautiful golden cage. The detail on the door shimmered when the sun rays hit it. The cage brought comfort from the thunder, protecting me at every cost.

    Days went on, and the door of the cage stayed open. The storm passed, and I chirped again. My wounds began to heal in the cage, not knowing I was allergic to gold.

    Burning my feathers, watching them wither away. Thinking my color is ugly, so maybe I could lose some off my wings.

    The other birds watching me with their divisive eyes, chirping to each other, watching me stay in the cage more every day.

    Months went on. Being naive about the cage taking my vocal cords, making the cage my identity, flying less and less every day.

    The intense anxiety shivering down my spine when even thinking about flying, about freedom.

    Not noticing when the door closed on the cage, being blinded by the comfort I once thought was safety, but was confinement.

    Thinking if I leave the cage, I’ll get caught in another storm, not being able to fly again if lightning struck my wings. Never making it back to the willow tree. Never feeling freedom again.

    The little chirps I still had in me vibrated the bars, electrocuting my feet, teaching me I can’t chirp or I’ll get hurt.

    Pacing back and forth in the cage made it wobble, almost falling out of the tree. So I stopped pacing, fearing I’d get hurt if I hit the ground.

    Being bare—no feathers, no chirps, no movement.

    All I have to do is open the detailed door on the cage and leave this tree that I made my home.

    And somewhere along the way,
    I stayed long enough to believe I belonged here…
    not in the willow tree. No freedom.

  • Grease Fire

    I cant breathe, and neither can you.

    We´re breathing in the toxic fumes of a house fire we started. Not on purpose, not with intention, just two people who weren’t careful enough and let a grease fire begin in the kitchen.

    It wasn’t supposed to get like this.

    But instead of suffocating it, we poured water onto the flames, watching them rise higher, more violent, more consuming.

    Now the fire is everywhere.

    In the walls. In the ceilings. In places we can’t reach, no matter how hard we try.

    The heat presses into us, melting our skin together, burning us with every intention to leave scars that won’t fade. And instead of paying attention to the house collapsing around us, we turn toward each other. Pointing fingers, placing blame, arguing over who started the fire, while everything we are standing in is being destroyed.

    The walls are caving in.

    The rooms are filling with thick, dark smoke- heavy, suffocating, clouding everything until we cant even see each other clearly anymore.

    We run from room to room, searching for something to hold onto- memories that were never built into this house, trying to grab a future that doesn’t exist yet.

    All while the sirens echo somewhere in the distance, never lose enough to save us.

    We act naive.

    We know water makes it worse- more damage, more burns, more wounds.

    But we keep pouring anyway.

    Because doing something feels better than standing still and facing the fire for what it is. The buckets we carry aren’t even water. They’re filled with insecurities, twisted thoughts, reactions we can’t control.

    Mine burns like gasoline- emotional, irrational, feeding the flames instead of putting them out. Yours looks like help, but it comes with control, with pressure, with the belief that love is something that can be shaped, pushed, molded.

    And still- we both think we’re saving something.

    One of the buckets has holes in it, leaking before it even reaches the fire. Effort without impact. Motion without change. The other hesitates, questioning if what we’re doing will even work- but still pours anyway. Because stopping would mean admitting this isnt working.

    At some point, the heat stops feeling shocking. It becomes normal.

    We get used to not breathing right. Used to knowing that every conversation will burn us a little more. Used to the push and pull, the cycle of thinking love is stronger than the damage its causing.

    We tell ourselves the fire will die out eventually. That we can rebuild the house once everything calms down. But the truth is- this house was unusable from day one. And instead of walking away, we stayed. Decorated it with future memories, filled it with things we hoped it could become, ignoring what it already was.

    Now we stand at the windows with safety ladders in our hands, both of us offering the other a way out, both of us hesitating to take it. Because leaving means separation. Means tearing skin that’s already fused together. Means feeling a different kind of pain than the one we’ve learned to live with.

    So we stand here, in a house that is actively burning down, asking ourselves – do we want to escape? Or do we want to burn with it?

    Together. Hand in hand. Suffocating on the fumes.

    Because maybe suffocating the fire was never about saving the house.

    Maybe it was about walking out the front door- even if it means ripping ourselves apart just to breathe again.

  • A couple Minutes

    That night changed my life—or at least the part of me that controls my imagination.

    We were both intoxicated, slurring our words together, making stupid decisions side by side. Twenty-seven days of playing house. Pretending this dream could last, just long enough to feel something that looked like love. Were we lonely, or was there a reason? Different views, different opinions, different futures. What did we really want?

    Someone to argue with.
    Someone to feel passion with.
    Someone to feel the comfort of another person’s breath on their skin.

    My past—the weight of it—dragged you down into the mud with me. How selfish was I to Velcro my heart to yours so quickly? We both knew this day would come. The day we’d have to return to real life, move on, and pretend the memories didn’t exist. The conversations. The disagreements. The sincere check-ins about our days.

    I kept postponing that ending, convincing myself I could live inside a fairytale forever. Bowing my head to you. Letting you love me the only way you knew how.

    Chemically, it was toxic. I brought the lighter; you handed me a bomb. We watched it explode in our hands. Both of our minds carried manipulation and control, but we didn’t stop. We stared at the bright side while the darkness stood right behind us.

    When does caring turn into controlling?
    When does yelling become sternness?
    They sound different, but they share the same beat.

    Twenty-seven days.
    How do you start loving someone in such a short amount of time? Being in love is easy—it’s living with it that’s hard.

    We were shocked by how instantly we clicked. Like colors on a rainbow—me red, you blue—never meant to blend, but too passionate to care. Loving opposite ends of the spectrum and calling it connection.

    I should have listened when you said you weren’t putting your eggs in one basket. I thought I had a full dozen. Naive enough to believe I could make something whole out of it.

    You caught me while I was spinning inside a tornado—a downward spiral I never meant to pull you into. I’m sorry you got tangled in the wind. I thought I was grounded. I wasn’t. You brought the debris.

    Your house felt safe. A place where I could finally breathe—not realizing oxygen can still come with side effects. Making your coffee in the morning, unaware of the coffee grounds already lodged beneath my fingernails.

    We skipped ten steps and never looked back. Letting my brain dictate my life instead of my heart. You saw straight through me and still tried to protect me from myself.

    Your working hands held my face, your lips whispering security into my ears—not knowing I would want to keep it forever.

    I thought I could change your heart. Change your mind. Change your beliefs. I thought we could meet in unison, mirroring each other, living in a flow state of being together while somehow still focusing on ourselves.

    But did we love each other—or did we love the house, the dinners, the mornings, the laughter, the intimacy?

    I taught you patience. You gave me the beginning of learning how to love myself the way you loved me. I will never regret that night of our stupid decisions. I regret playing house.

    The twenty-seventh day came to an end.

    One last kiss.
    One last hug.
    One last text message.
    One last phone call.

    Now we are left rebuilding the hearts we both helped shatter. Even in the wreckage, there’s some good in goodbyes—the kind that teaches you who you are, what love can be, and how to let go when holding on would only hurt.

  • When The Power Turns On

    Then the flip switches.
    We’re finally turned on.
    The electricity is running, and the bill is high.

    Imagine sticking your finger into a socket and your whole body absorbs the current. Suddenly you feel alive. Sparks run through every vein, lighting you up from the inside. It’s addicting. You chase it until you can’t run anymore—arms out, ready to grab the feeling and never let it go.

    You’re unstoppable.
    On top of the world.
    Nothing can touch you.

    Until the power shuts off again.

    You realize you haven’t blinked in minutes. Your heart is racing. Ideas flood your brain so fast you can’t catch them all. Creativity sits in your fingertips, and the passion is explosive. Tabs open everywhere. Projects scattered across your desktop like confetti. You withdraw money you don’t even have because you feel like life is too short to wait.

    People say you only live once.
    But that’s false.
    You live every day—
    you only die once.

    It’s strange how you can despise yourself one moment, yet stand with the confidence of a supermodel the next. It’s like being tugged in every direction by invisible hands, whispering that you’re invincible, glowing, unstoppable.

    But then the lights start to flicker.
    The power dims.
    And you have no money left to turn it back on.

    That’s when it hits—the halt, the crash, the brick wall you never saw coming.

    The power is on now.
    But the question always hangs in the air:

    When will it go dark again?

  • Drowning On Air

    but Breathing Underwater

    The silence of water emerging over your body fills in every gap of insecurities and critiques. The pain of water flooding your lungs softens the noise in your head. Everything slows while you sink to the bottom, the baggage of shame, guilt, and fear pulling you toward the dark, empty ocean floor. You watch the world move above you, still spinning, still demanding, while you’re finally at peace with yourself.

    No one knows where you are. No pressure to be perfect. No expectations in this symbolic world of sin. Nothing can puncture you — not even your own critical thoughts. Who wouldn’t want to sink into the ocean and feel the peace of nothing?

    Walking through life feels robotic. Repeating the same steps seven days a week, not knowing what next month brings. Suffocating on air. Dissociating on God’s beautiful planet, trying to remember to be grateful for every detail. Wanting to be okay… needing to be okay. Every step I take, I trip and fall, hitting every bone on the way down. I hide the scars from those falls, and no one notices the string I tripped on — from far away it looked like air.

    I’m trying to catch my breath, but the air fills my lungs with stress and despair, making every second dizzy and confusing. Taking a breath underwater relieves the pressure of reliability and all the threads I’m supposed to hold together. I need just one split second to breathe in comfort, stillness, and silence. I’m naive enough to think I have the option to stay in the abyss.

    But I know I have to come up eventually for that vulgar air, hoping my view of God’s world has changed after sinking into the unknown. But even in life, aren’t we all just walking into the unknown anyway? Into a future that blinds us with every turn, never having a tight hold on anything. Learning to let go of control — but not so much that I can’t swim back to the surface.

    I need to reach out for God’s hand. I need to breathe — breathe in comfort, stillness, and silence. Who knows… maybe the air could bring me back to life again.

  • Dear Five -Year- Old Me

    You never deserved what happened to you and I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. If I could go back, I would make sure no monsters got into your castle. I told you it made you stronger and we could get through anything. I’m sorry I was so hard on you when it came to school, friends and family. I put a kind of pressure on you that no ten year old deserved.

    I’m sorry I let you express who you were and get bullied everyday by how we looked. The eye bags underneath your sad eyes carried every emotion that we couldn’t feel. I’m sorry I changed you, I turned your soft gentle heart into a brick wall where no one could reach it.

    I’m sorry I wasn’t there to hold you when you were crying, I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when things would happen to us, I shrugged it off and let it eat at our body until we decomposed. I’m sorry I never got help for us, I pretended that we were okay and smiled while holding back the tears. I’m sorry I let the darkness take over, I wish I could fix it now.

    I made us grow up so fast due to our circumstances and we could never be a child again. I took your childhood away and I’m sorry no one noticed the scars, the burns, the trauma, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. I’m sorry it took me so long to figure out that we are not okay, it’s okay to cry, little me. It’s okay to be scared and not know what to do.

    I’m sorry for not telling you I love you, instead I used words with hatred in them. I’m sorry we couldn’t look in the mirror and love what we saw. I’m sorry we coped like our family, we never deserved any of it.

    Dear five year old me, always be fearless and stand up for yourself. You deserve to be heard and deserve to be loved. If forgiveness ever finds us, I won’t suffocate it with the baggage we carry. I promise, I won’t hurt you again.

    Please forgive me.
    Sincerely, us.