Wherever you are, I hope you’re happy. I hope you find peace of mind and the light at the end of the tunnel. 

A few years from now, you will wake up to the sun. She will kiss your nose and make her way down to your toes. She will fill your body with warmth, lifting you out of bed. Your long carmel legs will hold the weight of your body as you hop from one foot to the other. Dancing to the subtle beat that fills the quiet voids in the room. As you close your eyes you let the subtle beat of jazz music fill your head. Taking deep breaths in, then out. 

To love yourself takes a lot of strength.

You are composed of veins that resemble roots. Organs that function to those of a flower. You bloom under the sun’s rays and wilt in the cold. Yet, you are alive through each season. 

But you are not a flower.

You are you.

You know how it feels to be trapped. Trapped in time, space, and your own mind. To have a little voice ringing in your ear leaking poisonous words into your head. I know how it feels to give up on everything, to see the light at the end dim, eventually fading into darkness. I know how it feels. 

To love yourself is to be accepting. 

 A psychic once told you that you won’t find the love of your life until you’re 27. 

She was right. 

You found the love of your life, it just happened to be they were there all along. 

She was there for you when no one else was. She helped your sluggish body move from bed, she forced food to stay in your stomach when you weren’t hungry, she reminded you to take care of you. She hid under the layers of your guilt and insecurities. 

But like a flower she blossomed. 

I am writing this to you to let you know that you made it. 

Years from now you are content.

 You can look in the mirror and tell yourself you’re beautiful without streams running down your face. 

Years from now you will look back and think you were weak. You were not weak, but rather lost. 

The thread that stitched your wounds will no longer be pulled. Watching your skin ripple letting the wound resurface. This time it is healed. No longer an open cut, but a memory of who you were. 

From me, to you. 

I love you.