Letter to Myself
You do not know, you cannot know
what I am, friend or foe.
For seventeen years, I’ve been by your side
always coming along for the ride
that is your life. I hide so
you don’t know what I am and what I think
as you desperately try to blink
away the tears that you claim are not there.
But I have seen your soul when it is bare,
when you have shed away your walls and sink
into the dark abyss of your mind.
I have seen what lies behind
the curtain of your bleeding heart
as we watch our world crumble and fall apart.
I watch you try to find
the inner strength to keep going on
and before I know it, you have gone
to run away to a place where you know
your ghosts will not catch you; you go
and run to replace emotional pain with a physical one.
For seventeen years, I have told
you how to suck it up and be bold
enough to say what you feel
and what you think, before you kneel
on the ground, alone, with nothing but the wintry cold.
I always say that you look fine
every time you see yourself and whine
that you don’t look good enough.
And every time that things got tough,
I’ve helped you cross that finish line
that always seems so far away.
But honestly, I have to say
that sometimes I think you’re weak,
and still I dare not speak
for fear that anything I might say
will hurt you. Your pain
is my pain, and if I tell you again
that you are not strong, well, that makes me weak too.
For this reason I will not tell you
if I am your foe… or your friend.
