Dear Seventeen
The black pen with black ink is running out,
The paper on the desk is clean but creased.
It must hurt to have been crumpled up and straightened out time after time again,
Only to be used by someone else.
One year, and I am an entirely new person.
My tears have left permanent stains.
They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,
But what if I feel too weak to pick up the pen?
The thoughts swarm in my head,
They are buzzing,
Too many tangled lines,
I can’t make straight of the messy strands.
One question is determined to mute the noise,
It reigns in my head:
How can I write? How can I write?
Time has buried me alive,
Yet, somehow, I survive.
No one understands; they try but they can’t.
I crave the sound of an apology,
As if I will ever get the satisfaction of hearing one.
The hard truth is,
They don’t care to and I know that I can’t make them.
Words can’t be unsaid; wounds take time to heal.
But despite their cruelty,
The earth keeps spinning, and I keep going.
I can smooth the crumpled piece of paper but I can’t erase the pain,
I can shake the pen and plead for one more droplet of ink,
But maybe it has already given me its best.
The black ink is spotty as I guide the pen across the page,
My handwriting not neat quite enough.
Dear Seventeen.
You ask yourself how you can write,
when you feel that words aren’t enough.
Maybe you can’t.
You ask yourself how you can make them understand,
giving them chance after chance.
Maybe you can’t.
You ask yourself how you can make them feel sorry
for the way that they destroyed you.
Maybe you can’t.
But when you’re wondering if you can survive it— all of it—
Trust me, you can.
Copyright ©
Ada Monroe
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