Letter to My Future Self

You’re reading this in ash, I presume,
under a single white bulb, nestled
between shelves of dented Campell’s soup cans,

picking your nails because you can never
quite get the dust out of them these days.

I’m getting ahead of myself. You know,
I used to picture you as me in a
navy dress suit, a softer smile,

covered in dark splotches like closing
your eyes after looking at the sun.

Have you seen the sun lately?
I mean, let it spill over your cheeks
into your arms and legs until it feels
like God's fast asleep in your ribcage?

I could be a diplomat for our
13 year-old sister self and ask:

Have you run your tongue over
another boy’s gums? Do you still
watch cartoons and keep a diary?

Are you still hopelessly in love with
the rain? Am I still somewhere, maybe,
in the space behind your eyes?

It’s okay if the answer is no
to all of those. She knows we walk

as an homage to her. I guess I’ve
got to tell you I’m still in the house
on Ward, staring out the front window

at autumn-bronzed hills, if you ever
need me. But now is cascading over

this body and I’ve never wanted
it more.

Val Rivera is a queer writer and English major with a creative writing concentration at Ramapo College. Her work has been published in four issues of Trillium, Ramapo’s literary magazine. Her poetry and fiction explore nostalgia, the beauty and pain of womanhood, friendship, self-love and self-loathing.