Dear me from January,

 

It’s me, or rather I’m you, 

But from six months in the future.

Not much has changed—

You still suck at physics,

You still have weekly quarter life crises,

And you still cuddle with your pillow at night

To substitute for your lack of human intimacy.

Regardless, I’m not here to condescend you,

But rather I’m here to warn you

About the boy….

 

He’ll fuck you,

Then proceed to fuck you over.

Despite being inside of you,

All “7 inches” of him,

Your hearts won’t move an inch closer.

 

He’ll tell you

“No strings attached”

But proceed to tie a rope around your neck,

A rope called hope, threaded out

Of pretty words and empty promises.

And with each step you try to take away from him,

The grip on your neck tightens,

Pulling you back to him.

 

Despite the abuse, you defend him,

And wear the rope as a necklace.

Is it to hide the burns and scars?

Or do you just love him that much

That you cherish every shitty thing he gives you?

Either way, 

You can’t disguise a leash for a romantic profession.

Similarly, 

You can’t confuse love with possession.

 

I pray you take heed of my warning,

And avoid this boy at all costs.

Or perhaps, don’t.

He will teach you a valuable lesson—

That you are stronger than any

Lovespell he casts on you.

 

So go ahead,

Let him crawl inside.

He may destroy you, but he cannot defeat you.