Nelson, I Didn't Know How to Say it

Dear Nelson,

I wanted to say goodbye, but I didn't know how. I didn't know how to say those words with a smile glued on my face. Smiling like I was happy to go.

I don't know how to use the art of small talk effectively. I didn't know how to talk about the weather when I wanted to talk about heaven. I didn't know how to pretend that I wasn't scared.

I didn't know how to tell you how much this class meant without sounding like a kiss ass. Without telling you I wanted an A to hang on the refrigerator. I didn't know how to say I like writing. Without sounding like I was fishing for compliments.

I didn't know how to hold back the tears... Without wanting you to tell me it was okay to cry.
I didn't know how to hold back the tears without letting a few fall. Because the truth is, I'm scared of change.

I'm scared of the unknown. Of the hurt behind your scar. Of the person behind the mask. The number behind the variable. The punchline behind the joke.

I'm scared of smashing the spider in the locker room. Because I don't want God to kill me so thoughtlessly. I don't want God to crush me under his shoe. I don't want him to consider my life as meaningless. The meaningless life we grant the ant or the mosquito.

I'm scared of oblivion. I'm scared that if I am remembered, it will be for the wrong reasons. As the girl who shaved her head. As the girl who went away for a while. As the girl who couldn't get over her boyfriend.

I'm scared that you hate my favorite song. That every time you hear my favorite lyrics, you're laughing.
That you're making fun of this post.

I'm scared to say I'll miss this. I'll miss typing out the words that hurt to read. The words that make my mom cry, and not in a good way.

I'm scared to say "I'm scared." Out loud.

I'm scared to admit that it hurt when my mom cried last night. When she took one look at me and broke down. When she was cringing as I chopped off my hair.

It hurts when she says that I don't have feelings, that I'm cold. That I don't love her. That I don't care. But it's easier to pretend she's right. My feelings are uglier laid out on the kitchen table next to the centerpiece. My feelings aren't the bright colors that make up the rainbow or lead you to the pot of gold. They're the green-grays, and the purple-blacks.

I'm scared of pen. Of making mistakes. Of permanent marker. Of permanent things.

I gave her the razor but I didn't give her permission. I held my breath instead of saying "no." I'm sorry I told you to leave when I wanted you to stay, but don't think this whole letter is an apology.

I clicked "publish" when I wanted to click "publish." I should have touched "save." But the words wouldn't come to my head in enough time and God told me He wasn't ready for me to make those kind of decisions. Those impulsive ones.

And I did anyways.

I'm sorry if you hate my hair. If you hate my taste in music. My laugh.

Because I want to be one of the kids you remember for something good.

Love,
Me