Letters, I write, to that kind kid.

I write letters to you, my dear self.

I write to the sepia time of the past, to applaud your every mundane deed.

Your demons crawl, biting venomous insecurities in your veins.

Beyond the veil of time, I deploy inked words to shoot them.

Every curve of my writing commands dominion over the scathing voices in your brain, yanking the harness over the internal demons.

Your skin is as pristine as it is.

And your body is as holy as it is.

Confidence is etched in the crinkles of your smile,

and not on your pimples.

Grade never matters.

Because it is the fun and frolic that memory patters.

My letter instructs you to parry the blow of society,

and not let it get to you.

Block. Parry. Dodge.

No doubt, it gets difficult.

You despise your days and nights alike.

But it gets better,

I promise

and you will rise again.

Once in a while, you will encounter some stubborn and clingy bruises. Let them stay and remind you of your resilience.

Let them stay and tell you tales of your bravery.

Shy not,

let the stubborn bruises bare to the world.

Brandish them like the great gladiator you are,

surviving and beating life's Champions every time.

Trust me,

the longing lingers,

the need to wipe your tears and hug you,

and say, "it's ok."

The longing lingers,

the urge to pat your shoulders,

and say, "I am proud of you."

Maybe the future me wishes to meet me,

and say the same.

I will be kind to myself,

because out there

there's another me who wishes I have treated myself otherwise.

Out there,

there's already another me who's drafting her letter to me,

like I am to you.

Be kind,

so that we learn from you.