Love Letter to Myself

After Ocean Vuong/After Frank O’Hara/After Roger Reeves

Darling, don’t be afraid.You have endedso many timesonly to begin againin the morning.Your pain is onlya burning reminderthat you have legsthat can carry youthrough hell, and canstand proudly in heaven.Darling, are you listening?The most beautiful partsof your body are the partsyou had to grow againafter plucking them to putin a bouquet for someone whodid not have the capacityto water them.The man whose armswere wide enoughto hold both youand your shadowwere the same armsthat would tattooyour pain in invisibleink—so that you wouldknow it is there, stainingyour skin, but no one elsecould see it.You would scrub and scrubyourself raw at what lookedlike your own skin—and yet you stillasked for a second chance.As if chance is somethinghe holds in his hands,something you melt into,something that will overflowin his calloused fingers,so that he has most of youin his palm,but enough to stillslip through his fingers.Darling, you do notneed a chance .Don’t be afraid,the yelling is onlythe sound of peoplewho do not know howto love, so they aretrying to take it from you,someone who is made of love.Darling, get up.The most wondrouspart of your journeyis where you willend up, and rememberthat baby steps arestill steps forward.Here is the roomyou are leaving behind—memories of fightsand pain and whatyou could have swornwas love whistlingthrough you like thetune of an old, forcedlaugh. Can you see it?You are one foot out thedoor, and all you have todo is take anotherbaby step.