For Meg

I didn’t know you;

Not really.

Not enough to warrant writing you this

And yet I did know you, and I do know you, and I ever will know you.

I know what it is to be you.

I know what it is to be 14 and terrified of growing up

To know that the time of innocence is ending, and that this is the last of your unadulterated happiness

I know what it is to be 16 and falling in love

But at the same time, not falling in love

Because compared to falling into the abyss inside your own head, everything else is standing still

I know what it is to be 18 and thinking, “it will all get better now”

To be leaving school, poised on the threshold of life and escaping the poisonous small town that has suffocated you for so long

And darling girl, I know what it is to be 19

And to embrace the blackness that is still there

And will always be there

And you can’t escape it

And you can’t pretend

And it hurts too much

So what’s the point?

. . . . . . . . .

Oh god, I envy your bravery.

I do.

But my heart breaks for you, baby.

Because now I know what it is to be 21 and alive. And not happy yet, but working on it.

And now I know what it is to be 21 and in love with a love that consumes and heals.

And now I know what it is to be 22 and glad to be alive.

And my heart is breaking because I didn’t know you.

Not really.

But I wish you’d known these things, too.