Today,
The air may touch my scars, but it doesn't quite sting. And even if it does, my skin will still be mine once it heals. I can say what I think and think differently later, and there's nothing wrong with that. I can wilt one day and bloom the next. After all, who can blame the tide for falling? If it didn't rise at all, even if it only does so by the moon's harsh pull, the sea would continue to move. And I will forget about those things – people and places and such – that I have left. They will stay embedded in my skin if I think about them or not, like the rings in a tree. I can let time flow through me without pushing back. I can offer a prayer and hide it somewhere, knowing I will find it later if it is meant to be found. Who knows – it may find me instead.
At the end of the day, there are much more pressing issues at hand.
YOU ARE READING
Letters For Someone, Someday
PoetryPoems and short stories/The manic ramblings of a middle schooler (except the last chapter I'm not in middle school anymore) Tws: references to suicide, death, drugs, abuse, I don't know u can handle it
