From October 9th, 2012.

Hey Eve. Happy Birthday. So, you're twenty now. Twenty years of living, which is almost a quarter of your life, maybe even less. Is the future as horrible as you imagined? Is it grey and smoggy, and do you still feel trapped? How's your heart. Has it held out yet, or is it still struggling like a sparrow with no wings? Where even are you? Have you learnt an instrument yet? You always wanted to be in a band, right. I hope you are, that or a beautiful writer. I hope that to. I hope you're well. Would you go back and change anything then? I'm listening to Cassiopeia by Joanna Newsom right now, it's just finished. I'm thinking how pretty the sky is, and I'm thinking about where I'll be when I'm your age. I'm hoping it's somewhere nice and that you're reading this. I feel a little weird now. I'm sad and happy but I suppose that's what being a teenager is. I feel all alone sometimes, and it's so horrible. Is this depression? Am I mentally ill yet? I feel misjudged and sorrowful. I write poetry now, properly. Yet I don't feel like a poet. Nor an artist. I want friends and I want love and I want the countryside. No, I don't know what I want. But I'm seeing The Unthanks this month which should be good. I want to see Joanna Newsom and travel the world, I think. I want to learn the harp and tour with Jobe or with my lover. Be it lass or lad, I want a lover. And a dog called Bonnie. (O, how's Tilly?! She reminds me of the song Sadie!) Are you still in touch with Hannah and Gemma? What about Robyn and Somiya and Connor and all the others? Do you remember them? Is the family well? I hope so. I'm quite worried about the GCSE's. I hope you got a good grade in Maths... Never were too good at that now where you? And I hope you went to college and that you're going to uni. I hope you see lots of bands there and that you have a great fucking time (I don't swear by the way). Has the world collapsed yet? What about space travel and such? Have we ruined other planets too? Eve, I truly hope you've found peace. And my heart feels like it's spilling all over this goddamn keyboard and I feel like crying all the time, so I hope that you know who you are now. And I hope you're still reading and arting. And writing. So I challenge you to make this letter into a poem or a story. Please, try and remember back to this moment and realize how lost you felt, and how achy you were. Remember how you felt as though you weren't pretty at all? I hope you are now. I hope. Say hello to your lover from me (if you have one). And give everyone a hug after reading this. You owe it to them for being there. Pick up your phone and call Hannah or Gemma, if you still know them, and say you've just got this. Tell them how much they meant to you. Please. I'll leave you with a poem, it's one of my favourites. It's about someone, I hope you remember who. It wasn't a fancy fancy, but it was a start, right? Collarbones. Darling disdainer, you will not read this letter, But I write, as the silver moon pales I like collarbones, but I like her hair better, (It’s twisted into russet-chalky sails!) Yet here: your two pallid pools of wax - Alabaster lakes dripping with milk, Bends even the fractious flax, Across skin-linen of snow-brushed silk, The small curvature of shoulder- mountains, rising with every breath, Misted cells ripple inside, ever colder, Bloodlessly bold, stretched in death, The dregs of wan tidings reach my marrow, Pooling amongst my unruly calm, Devoid now is the raven hued tarrow As it drips down your pasty arm; Flexing a slender clouded hand, Words from the white bone, to the letter, But her hair remains braided in the band, And I like your collarbones, but I like her better. I love you. - Me.