for aanika, with bruises on her palms

dear aanika,

i've always wanted to tell you that i understand what it feels like to have empty, bruised hands and a cave-in where my heart should be, and only loneliness where other people keep religion and faith. i know what it's like to love someone imperfectly, ineptly -- a love where you'd rather just be the meteorite that crashes and burns into the playground asphalt than let go, even though holding on is dragging you through a murky, rock-filled underwater tunnel with black holes where all the beautiful brightly-colored fish should be.

i know that you know more than anyone else that beauty isn't what you hold in your hands and mold into something else. it's something that happens, culminates as a result of experience and life and love and pain, and mostly -- it's bigger than us or them or any creator the world has to offer. and i think that you're the most beautiful person i've ever known,

and a lot of times, i don't think you see that in yourself.

and i know i'm not the only person who thinks that, who is envious of you despite all the pain and tears. because it's not just anyone who can make a person jealous of hurting.

aanika, i know that sometimes the air is hard to breathe and most of the time, there just isn't a point in trying when you still cry at night and think about the boys with the sparkle-heavy eyes that shone all the different colors of life. and when you want to rip your heart out and throw it in the grass because it hasn't done you any good so far, loving all the time and not getting loved back -- well, please don't.

since i started reading your poems, i've found it amazing that someone who lives fifteen hundred miles away from me can write something that so completely defines everything i've ever gone through -- someone who can break and break and break and break and break and still make it so beautiful that i nearly wish i'd felt something so strong. until i realize that i already have, and it fucking hurt. it's an amazing talent, to make someone want to relive the worst parts of their lives, just so they can see how beautiful it can be.

and i'm awed that you still put yourself back together every time, because i never did. i just let myself sit in so many pieces that when i did try to, i didn't come back quite right. there's a few spots missing here and there that might've gotten swept up by the vacuum or blown away by a draft -- parts of myself that i'll never quite know again.

i just want you to know -- i don't want that to happen to you. i want someone to come and show you it's worth it, even without god or a home or a sense of self-worth. i want you to never give up on summer (like i have) or life or love or family, even when everything is falling down around you and you wonder if you'll still have somewhere to go to at night. home is just a word, and i'm sorry you're having to learn that already.

i guess mostly what i wanted to say in this letter is that i think you might be my twin, somewhere out there, and that you are more beautiful than you know. and sometime, some boy out there will be good enough to realize that and look you in the eyes instead of just being caught up in himself and the scars on his palms.


love,

katie