Content warning: imagined violence toward a past self, dysphoria.

A letter from a child, left in a journal

Dear Future Me,

URGENT:
If time travel is invented within our lifetime,
meet me here and now. It’s February 20th, 2009.
I’m at home (in Glen Ellyn, if you forgot) and my parents
are asleep, so be quiet. Meet me in five minutes
at 11:50 pm. I need you now more than ever.
                                               I’ll be waiting.

Questions to ask yourself before you use a time machine

If I am here, are you still waiting?
What was this urgent burning?
What centipede secrets curled around
your heart at a quarter to midnight?

I don’t remember you,
small specter, except that your sadness
could swallow Chicago. You kept it crammed
inside your cavernous chest. Thanks for that.

I’m afraid to return to that howl of a house
and see, instead of a child, a reflection.
Is it enough to appear in silent flesh?
Would my still-twitching body prove all well?
You’ll see evidence of your own survival
and can finally stop shaking in the dark.

But you will not survive.

Your body is a shell that I, a hermit crab,
will inhabit. I’ll kill your body, cut you up,
shave your head, erase your name.
Your death will be slow and agonized.
Some say I’m still killing you today.

What do you want from me, with your sunken eyes,
milky blue, your greasy, stringy hair I so despised?
Why didn’t you ask a question?
Then a letter from me would suffice.

About the author

Rook Rainsdowne is a poet currently attending Eastern Washington University’s MFA program. They have poems recently published or forthcoming in Protean, Fifth Wheel Press, and ANMLY. They are a co-founding editor of COOP: chickens of our poetry. Learn more at roookrainsdowne.com. 

Photo by Eugene Chystiakov on Unsplash.