I Wrote This For You

I am writing this for you.

The you who knows me through and through,

despite what you may believe, anymore.

The you who knows my speech patterns like the chorus to your favorite song and the inside of my hands like your own personal roadmap to our made up constellations.

I am writing this in hopes you will listen to me,

to the me you knew before.

and realize she never changed.

I am still the girl who makes playlists of songs when she can’t arrange her thoughts into words, who will eat cookie dough like it’s a full course meal at 2 AM, who feels completely put together when her absurd socks finally match, who dances around when the only music playing is the melodic nonsense in her mind.

I am still the girl you fell in love with.

I understand you don’t understand,

I understand it may be easier for you not to see that,

for you to instead conceptualize me into a cold, steely villain whose eyes have turned to grey

but that’s plainly untrue.

That would be easier to grasp than the truth, though, in all honesty.

That would be easier for us both

but instead we must comprehend the fact that

I am human.

I err.

I make mistakes.

I have made faults and owned up to them.

They do not define me nor who I am.

I am not changed

or tainted

or altered

because of what I have or have not done.

I am not someone you thought you knew.

I am the same girl who’s arms fit perfectly around your torso and who’s ridiculous laugh harmonizes effortlessly with yours.

There is no forgetting how blissfully beautiful we were.

Our wildflower words and heartbeat symphonies.

Every moment with you was something so new, something so astral and untouchable that even those around us marveled at what we had.

We were supposed to make it.

Everyone around us knew it, too.

We really, really were.

And we still could.

If you understand people make mistakes but those errors don’t define who they are,

that people grow and learn from faults,

then we still could make it.

We still could.




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