A Rhapsody of Rhyme

dear past me

dear past me,
no. you cannot spend 25 minutes in the sun
without a half inch layer of sunblock. the sun
is set to broil and you are an unattended loaf
of garlic bread. you will burn. every time you
brush your shoulders you will be reminded of the
blisters that remain as a scar of your bad choices.
you will need to take an advil – and we both know
how much you love taking pills. 

dear past me,
learn how to swallow a pill. don't argue. don't opt for
the witch's brew toxic waste banana burst syrup. 
just take the pill. you'll need it. especially after a run.

dear past me,
stretch. you know you're gonna hurt. you know your muscles
will become hot metal rods – searing your bones as they fix them
in place. if you put it off, you won't do it. 
5 minutes. that's all I'm asking.

dear past me,
don't procrastinate. not everything has to be done perfectly.
a little progress is better than none.
you can edit a bad poem, but not a blank page.
staying up until midnight is not as cool as it sounds.

dear past me,
take care of yourself. cry if you need to. cry when you need
to show yourself compassion. if you want to be kind to everyone
you have to be kind to yourself. our house is a little beaten down. 
that doesn't mean we can't make some repairs. 

sincerely,
you, but a little wiser

p.s. I put some sunscreen in your purse. don't forget to use it.

July 3, 2019
TheMightyBookworm