"More than a stunning debut. It is the announcement of a bold new literary voice"
—Stephen Chbosky, author of The Perks of Being a Wallflower

There were a lot of things you loved: writing, music, the way it felt to lay over the tin roof of the shed in the backyard, and the way it felt to fly even when you were perfectly grounded. You held life like water but crumbled when it slipped through your hands. I knew things weren’t okay. You weren’t as happy as you could have been but I tried to break through to you, I tried to make the ocean you were always drowning in beautiful and it was the least I could have done. Rough wasn’t enough to explain you- no- you were feathers rubbed the wrong way, you were a song with no music, you were the sky with no clouds. I could only imagine the hell- the purgatory. I wanted Father to love you like you wanted him too. I knew that was too hard for him to do but you didn’t and I should have told you. But you were a girl and I was a woman, I didn’t want you to grow up so fast. It wasn’t the drugs; let’s just admit that now while we still have the chance. No the way he looked at you like you were the lent that blurred the cameras vision in a once in a million, picture- perfect moment. I know you hated his eyes, because they were like yours, hazel and green with that black dot that reminded you-hellishly- where you came from. I think he did it for you. He was lost, you weren’t quite there yet. He had seen so much and he was scared because he knew how well you pulled that sort of thing out of people. You were a writer. He was too. He knew what came with it and he wasn’t prepared to give you words, although you desperately craved them. But let me sum it up for you: I never wanted to care about you. And he didn’t. There was too much time between you two, prison took eight years, you took three, and he took fifteen. I could say it was the drugs, the writing, the gun, the- but it’s too much, let’s just say it was him. Mother was never there because she wasn’t either. You took care of the kids, the house, school, and her. She’d come home sloppy and drugged and you’d scream inside “It’s enough” but was it? That year Timmy got into a car accident, right there in front of you, you were looking across the street at his bony shape then he was gone. He survived with a broken knee and surprisingly you were more wounded than him. It was your fault. The next year mom went away, Timmy went to New York, Aubrey went to Corpus, Jayden went to Ingleside, and you went to Portland. Everyone came back, except Timmy. I guess he finally believed it was enough. Mom came back, gathered the kids, and moved somewhere fresh. She dropped the drugs for a few months. It was like a memorial for Timmy, but it was too much and the powder was blinding. You moved three times, the first time Aubrey got cancer and three new guys came into your mom’s life. One stayed- Richard. There was a lot you could take then but Richard was your “Enough”. It happened by accident the first time but I don’t think the second was an accident or third, fourth, fifth-. You told Mr. Peterson your favorite English teacher. The police came, Mother came, and then half of me came. She called you a liar, kicked you out. You threw as many books as you could into a pillow case because who needs things like clothes anyway? Then you were back in Portland, with Nana. You were like a newborn. She started from the ground up and most nights you slept in her bed because her chest made you feel like you were falling into something great. Nana met Arturo, a singer, a drunk. The first night he said something to her, beer like poison on his tongue, you stuck your head from your room and screamed for him to shut up. It was his house but you were brave. Later Nana moved the three of you to San Antonio. You started eighth grade, you grew and learned. You got tough, and not just because of the self defense classes- no- you made your heart stone. You cried yourself to sleep most nights. Hell, you cried yourself awake. You screamed to God but he didn’t care. Then Aubrey got better. Mom got off of drugs, Jayden grew bigger and more aggressive, Richard stayed and although you hated him, you let it go because that’s what mom wanted and you were a loyal solider. You graduated eighth and moved happily into high school. You cried a lot in the beginning, maybe it was because of the classes or maybe it was because you knew you were losing yourself. You made friends for the first time and you started figuring out who this new person you looked at in the mirror was. You got two cats and loved having someone who was yours for a change. Fell in love, fell out of love and just fell in general. Your birthday came and you thought everyone forgot- which they did- except for Nana and Tamara and Sarah (your best friends). A couple of days later Father called, told you Grandma Brenda was dying- not sick, dying- and that you should come to see her. You haven’t gone and it’s because you don’t care, let’s be honest, you never cared who you were and that really sucked about you. Now, you sit around and wait for something to happen. You feel like everyone left you. You feel like you were never good enough, no one has ever loved you with the intensity you have towards loving them and that makes you feel like the world split apart and you just happened to be standing right where it cracked down the middle, falling towards nothing. I’m writing this letter because I love you, you just don’t know yet even as I’m writing this you’re shaking your head. I didn’t leave you because you were always good enough for me and that’s all that should matter. Now we are here, typing this, me inside of you, you feeling lonelier than ever. You read “Love Letters To The Dead” and you felt me quiver inside of you. This is an English assignment, you were told to write about who you thought was an ‘epic hero’ and your mind went to Ava Dellaira or maybe to Laurel. You two are alike in so many ways that neither of us want to admit, you just haven’t gotten to the end where you accept things and that’s okay with me for now. The point of this letter was because I have some advice. And here it is: Your life sucked. Now get over it.