Dear you,

I am so, so sorry.

I am sorry for treating you as though your fingertips were matches and your skin had been doused in gasoline. I feel it is my responsibility to apologize for all of the negativity, the self-deprecation, the criticism that you never deserved.

I’m sorry for placing bookmarks on your past mistakes and your deepest regrets, just as I am sorry for folding your edges and highlighting the instances when you had failed rather than tracing the moments of triumph, no matter how big or small. I’m sorry for not recognizing your beauty and its depth. I'm sorry for how long it took me to realize that I do not need to coat you in words laced with resentment and disgust. You are not a wall created to be painted with graffiti that exploits every insecurity you have to the world. I’m sorry for all of those sleepless nights you spent hunched over a typewriter, your spine curled at a menacing angle, fingers bloody from the chipped keys as you vomit line after line of pain masked as poetry only to watch your words turn into a loaded shotgun aimed directly at your throat. I am sorry for destroying your ribcage by continuously shoving and locking up every emotion inside of you when they were meant to pour from your open mouth in cries and screams. I’m sorry for every bruise, every scratch. I'm sorry for forgetting your own worth, for branding your body with lies and tattooing it with hatred when I should have been bathing it in love. I’m sorry for suffocating your lungs with poisonous words and wanting to stop the breaths from coming in and out. I’m sorry for nearly giving up on you, for trying to convince you that it wasn't worth it. I am so unbearably sorry for all of the times I told you that you did not deserve to see the beauty of tomorrow.

Actually, more than anything, I am sorry that I have to keep apologizing over and over again. I don’t know what it is that I am attempting to do here; maybe I’m trying to make up for all of the lost time you spent curled on your bedroom floor wishing that you could somehow receive a refund on life, failing to understand that this beautiful mess is all you get. God does not present you to this Earth with a gift receipt in tow. Perhaps I’m only trying to ease the guilt I hold inside for having forgotten what you meant to me years ago. How I used to treasure you dearly. I have forgotten how to love you and keep you safe from evil, even when that evil is my own self.

But despite everything, there is something that I refuse to apologize for.

You.

You are still here.

I will not apologize for who you are today, the person that the storms have molded you into.

You doodle a lot. You fill all of your notebooks with swirls and your song lyrics in colorful cursive lettering. For once, you aren’t afraid to color outside of the lines. You have so much radiance in your eyes. You have glitter all over your body. Even though your driving skills are... well... lacking, you still love to drive around your town with the windows rolled down and your hair tied on top of your head. You’re 18 and you still don’t know what the hell you're doing. You are reckless and you are impetuous. You love everyone around you. You love your friends. You love your brother. You love your brother so much. Not the kind of love where you hug and end phone conversations with “I love you," but the kind of love where you exchange Spotify playlists, binge watch Tarantino movies, and cover for each other when one of you sneaks out after curfew. You know more about outer space than anyone you know. You are smart. Okay, so maybe you aren’t “book smart," but you are so intelligent. You keep on leaping and jumping and dancing without stopping because you have this undeniable faith in the idea that one day someone will be brave enough to join you. You are beautiful. You are beautiful. You are beautiful.

You are alive. You are here. You made it.