I wish I could go back and tell younger me
that the reason you’re always running
isn’t because you’re wild.
It’s because every time you stopped moving,
something hurt.
I wish I could tell you that one day
people will call you dramatic
for bleeding from wounds
they never watched being made.
I wish I could tell you
that you won’t always have to be the funny one,
the tough one,
the loud one,
the one who swears they’re fine
before anyone even asks.
I wish I could tell you
that the knot in your chest
isn’t forever.
But I’d be lying.
Some things don’t leave.
Some things just get quieter.
I wish I could tell you
that Mom and Dad become
the people you needed.
I wish I could tell you
every goodbye gets an explanation.
I wish I could tell you
every empty chair gets filled.
I wish I could tell you
everyone who promised forever
meant it.
But I’d be lying again.
So maybe I’d sit beside you instead.
Maybe I’d let you keep drawing pictures
of a future you haven’t given up on yet.
Maybe I’d tell you
that one day you’ll be eighteen
and still feel twelve sometimes.
That you’ll think you’ve gone backwards.
That you’ll wonder what happened
to the kid who was strong enough
to survive everything.
And then maybe I’d tell you the truth:
She didn’t disappear.
She just got tired.
Tired of carrying grown-up grief
with kid-sized hands.
Tired of pretending she didn’t care.
Tired of waiting by windows
for people who never came.
Tired of being brave.
And if you started crying,
I’d let you.
Because nobody ever really let you before.
Then I’d put a hand on your shoulder
and tell you the one thing
I think you needed most:
You were a child.
Not a problem.
Not a burden.
Not too much.
A child.
And none of those years
should have felt that heavy.
