A Letter To Younger Me

I wish I could go back and tell younger me
that life slips by like a sudden breeze.
How the moment she’s standing in
will melt into memory,
how the sunlight on her small shoulders
is already becoming a story.

And even though this moment
feels endless, it will be gone before the echo fades.

I'd tell her there are worries
far bigger than broken toys
or scraped knees,
but also joys far greater
the kind that rise quietly,
like dawn through an open window,
soft as a whispered promise of the blooming spring.

I'll show her how the same streets that’ll cut you
will teach you how to bleed art,
how to build a heartbeat
out of broken glass.

I'd tell her to linger,
to hold every breath like rent money.
To laugh loud enough to shake the bricks.
To mark time in scars and songs.

Cause when you stand where I stand,
eyes older than your years,
you’ll know:
time is a hustler,
but memory?
Memory’s a mural,
painted on the walls of your chest,
and nobody can tag over that.