happy new you | a poem

(dear me)

dear you, pristine, wholesome, eight-year-old mighty heart;
wary of your future but faithful in one,
standing your ground — 
you have no idea what awaits you.

social constructs will hit you,
thirteen and naïve,
you are no match to the wants your mind conjures.
it wants beauty. and beauty does not lie in knowing so much information.
in a pageant, your intelligence is a stick to a gun fight — 

much like you, or so you thought.

fourteen; convinced of your unimportance,
listening to your insecurities beckon.
they want you to join their chants:
i am insignificant, i am grotesque, i am a walking disaster;
a mistake, no less, no more.

your fearless confidence, now a façade.
a mask you wear — underneath, all the things your mind wants.
on the top of that list: off.

months go by, and your insecurities break off of you
like shells; you, renewed.
new you understands you are invincible.
new you doesn’t know.

new you runs into the knowledge of guilt, remorse and calamity;
new you forms new shells of insecurities.
this time, your mind does not care about beauty — 
it only cares about what you’ve done.

and it’s hooked on the idea of you being a catastrophe; at fault.
but you know you need to shut your mind down, before it gets what it wants.
and at the top of the list of things new you wants is an old want:

you need to off yourself, it says,
“the only remedy to the two-year-old damage done in you.

but you know you don’t. but you know you do.

dear you, pristine, wholesome, sixteen-year-old almost-mighty heart;
wary of your future but faithful in one,
standing your ground —

you’ve got worlds in your hands, your mind is one of them.
fix them like how you would yourself; happy new you.


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