Six-year-old me would’ve been disappointed at my blood stained wrists, a little girl with such a big vocabulary expected more from her future self
Seven-year-old me would’ve been proud of the thin white lines that hadn’t reopened. She would’ve been proud that she’s still writing
Eight-year-old me would wonder why I cut off my pretty long hair. She thought that beauty was hair down to your butt and pretty dresses
Nine-year-old me falls in love with my combat boots and leather jackets. But also that I wear dresses with them.
Ten-year-old me inquisitive as she is would have peered at my paintings and scoured over my writing and tried to find the meaning behind every word.
Eleven-year-old me loves my make up and is trying to perfect her own. She’d ask if I found the love that she reads about yet
Twelve-year-old me thinks I’m “deep” stares at my thin white scars versus her pinking healing ones and can’t decide how to react. She doesn’t think she’ss equipped to keep living.
Thirteen-year-old me isn’t sure love is real after her first break up even though she’s never kissed a boy.
Fourteen-year-old me thanks me for surviving. She knows she has plenty of living to do