Dear Future Husband,
I am writing now, as young as I am, to forewarn you of many things. The first of many things that I wish to warn you of, is my ever wandering mind. There are days that I am content to sit on the edge of the window, peering out at the world, and listening to the sound of the birds that is somehow chaotic, yet somehow everything anyone needs to hear on a day that the world seems to be ending. There are days that I am content to stroll into the city, being surrounded by the masked faces of people that I do not know. There are also days that I am dragged back to my bed when I am too afraid to face what seems to me, a bear only wishing to claw out my eyes. Some days, I want nothing more than to soak the sunlight into my sweet skin, and others, the moon is my witness, I can not peel myself from between the sheets. I cannot push my knees back so that they don’t buckle and make me fall altogether. Some days, I will open my soul, rip out the stitches and let you look into the bloody mess that I really am, but others I will rip the curtains out of your hands and wrap them tightly around my chest so that you cannot see the darkness that tries to force its way out. There are days that I will sing you to sleep, and others I will scream until my throat is raw and I taste rust on my tongue. I need you to hold me gently, but I cannot promise that there will not be days that I slam my fists against your chest because the world is not being kind to me.
The second thing in which I wish to warn you, is of the artist within my soul. On your worst days, I will graze my tired fingers along the blue seams underneath your skin that act as maps to the saddest places in you, and I will hold each one in my arms until they stop aching. I will run my fingers through the knots in your hair and sing lullabies to you as you try and calm your fears. I will hold your hand as you count the stars that lay before you, and brush the back of my hand against your cheek to remind you that I am here. I will catch your tears in a jar and set it in the windowsill so the sun shines through them to make rainbows on our kitchen floor. You must expect me to come away from my art with hands as paint splattered as a sky full of stars. You must expect poetry to tug at the ends of my hair, and roll off of my tongue like water droplets on a birds’ feathered back. You must expect me to press my lips against the rim of a glass and play with the mark of my breath along the side. I will catch the butterflies in your stomach and press them between the pages of our favorite photo album, so that you remember how to feel when you’ve nearly forgotten. I will wrap you in blankets of stars that I pulled down from the sky to lay in your lap, and I will set you on the moon to rest. I will spin in circles, light on my feet, and spin you along with me to keep you young. You must expect me to find heaven in your tired eyes, and leave my fingerprints on your aching heart. I will look at the stars knowing that I belong amongst them, but turn to you and realize that you are the stars, and I am already home.
Here I find that I am not alone.
Love, the sunless wanderer.