"Can I tell you something? "
DATE 12 : 12 : 18 : 8 : 26 PM
A love letter for a twelve year-old,
You boy. Tu chico. Chamaco. Nino. Chico con flores, flower boy, me.
It's like looking in a toy hand-mirror, one that blurs my reflection. I'm looking thorugh it and I'm seeing you. And it's weird, you're twelve and I'm eighteen, but there is this feeling that was birthed in the chasm of my lungs. A soft feeling. A tender feeling. A bittersweet feeling, one that makes the elderly call the youth beautiful. A bittersweet feeling of missing out. A bittersweet feeling of not being able to grow up with you. I never had someone like you when I was your age. The long lashes with the dimple. The mask used to cover happiness. I never had you because I was you. But, you aren't me. You are what I wanted to be. Easily liked. You were what I want him to be. Sweet under coarse behavior. Soft under the profanity.
You going to grow into a handsome man.
A man who is like us.
A man who is decent.
A man who loves art.
A man who is beautiful.
A man who will, one day, forget to put on the mask.
A man I wish I could love.
A man who will never know this.
A man who will forget me.
And, when you do I'll be gone.
So this is me, an eighteen year-old boy, writing to you.
In another life I would, but this life won't permit.
So, from me to you, a letter in the mail.
A try before you fail.
A message to the little boy I once was.
Don't cry over who you are. Don't be ashamed of who you are. Don't force words out, they'll come out when ready, and trust me they'll be ready. And when they are, sing. Because no matter how loud you sing it, ignorance only hears a whisper. Find love in those you see yourself in. Find hapiness in the mirrors that bleed crystal-clear.
Don't let anyone tell you who to be,
You're only a wallflower under the summer heat.
