Dear person I hate,

I think you're ignorant. I hate you for the way you speak and the way you send people who don't fit into your bracket of acceptable dirty looks. I hate how you think that the world revolves around you and that it's not cool to speak your mind. Maybe it isn't. But that's me. And you are you. But you are ignorant I hope, I pray, for your sake the sake of those around you, that you learn that constantly putting people down isn't a way to live your life. Because if you ever stop being ignorant you find how much the things you say hurt those around you - well the saying is, ignorance is bliss. I hope you don't realise too late.

Dear person I like,

You are kind. I don't know, it just radiates from you. Your kindness defines you. Your heart is so big and you stretch yourself so thin trying to appease everyone and avoid conflict but at the same time you always say the right thing at the right time and your hugs are the warmest I think I've ever been given and yeah, I don't fancy you, but I like you an awful lot more than I like anybody else in the world right now, including myself. You will make an amazing mother, if you ever get round to it, and every child that comes in contact with you has been blessed.

Dear ex best friend,

I don't appreciate being regarded as if I am something slimy that came off the bottom of your shoe. We never really fell out, did we? We went to different high schools, and you became too cool to be associated with me one day, I assume. Then, another day I wasn't present for, I became something to be scorned. No, I don't drink. No, I don't smoke. No, I don't do drugs. I wear my clothes because I like them, not to go on a fashion parade every time we step out the front door. That's who I am. I am comfortable without getting high or throwing my guts up and the only way to feel secure being putting those around you down. I just pity you. I am comfortable with my words and my stories and my friends and my sarcasm and you - well I hope you're comfortable, somewhere deep down.

Dear best friend,

I'm sorry I'm not your best friend, and you're mine. That wasn't meant sarcastically or spitefully, I'm just genuinely sorry that I can't fulfil you like you fulfil me, because you help me through the day. You make it easier to ignore the insults and the dirty looks and not think about what's being said behind my back, and I'm so fucking sorry that you're sad because I can't do the same. Because you are a fantastic human being, with unlimited potential and you are not your high score at solitaire and you are not a fuck up and you are loved and needed and - I need you. I know you'd find it overwhelming if I ever said anything close to this to your face, so I won't. But you are needed, and loved, and you are in no way failing anybody.

Dear *anyone*,

I didn't want the last thing I said to you to be shut up. I wanted it to be good luck. But apparently, you didn't need it. I heard you're doing just fine without my well wishes. And I'm so happy for you. You deserve it.

Dear Santa,

You were always pretty awesome, because I never had to write thank you letters. And Rudolph left hoof prints and your wrapping paper was always Christmas themed, and it meant a lot that somebody cared that I was being good. They still do, but they aren't you. And that's okay, because I'm a little old for Santa Claus. But you were a stepping stone, and you were a comfort that somebody cared. I miss believing in you.

Dear Mum,

Ignore the shit I say about you and being boring and your memory and your job and how much I pester you and act sensitive and break down all the fucking time at your feet. Just ignore that, because I love watching films with you and I love that we have matching hairy moles on our right forearms and I love that you call be beautiful when nobody else will and I love that you took me to the Waffle House for me to break down in and let me buy my rubbish magazine because it's a comfort and I love you and I'm so glad you've never given up on me, because if I was in your position I probably would've by now. I never mean to disappoint you and sometimes I want to hurt you but most of the time that's my fault, and I'm sorry I can't say to your face how much I love you because it seems stupid almost because you'll always reply that you love me more and I love you for that.

Dear Dad,

We are the same. We are far too alike. Yet far too different. And I love you too. I always will and I think I'll always say I love you back no matter how much angry poetry I write and no matter how much we scream at one another and no matter how much you raise your voice for seemingly no reason and no matter how often I have to catch myself before I speak because I can't talk to you like I talk to mum because you'll never understand. Remember when I told you I had an eating disorder and you thought I was joking and made a joke about my weight? Probably not. I still love you. I always will. It's like I have to love and hate you equally.

Dear future me,

Remember to learn how to cook. And find some miracle diet pills. And find a way of exercising without working out. And take folic acid if trying to get pregnant, more than the recommended dose. Never smoke because that'd harm any future babies. Ethan for a boy after Ethan at the Big Lunch today. For a girl, whatever tickles your fancy. Creative Writing is our one true calling in life. Don't forget that. Terminating toxic relationships is acceptable. Make sure to buy good bras because the Harry Hills are getting big. Try make yourself immune to horror films. Learn an impressive rap in the hope that one day it comes on the radio. Three stick people tattoos under left breast, all holding hands. ; tattoo on right forearm.

Dear past me,

You are exactly right. Keep going. Don't scream when they take out the stitches. Maybe give meeting a chance, if you want. Don't let Sam drift away, keep talking to him. Don't jump on top of your 'arch enemy' because he's not your enemy he's a kid like you and you might hurt him. Talk a lot to Esme Bradley. Make her feel loved. She won't be around for much longer.

Dear person I'm jealous of,

I wish I was unscarred like you. I wish that my skin was unmarked all the way round. I wish I had a perfect face. My god, I could go on wishing. For hours and hours and hours and forever and ever and an eternity until you and I both are nothing, until the world is nothing but one large graveyard. But wishing to be somebody else won't make me somebody else, I've got to make the necessary changes in myself if there is something that I don't like there, because at the end of the day I have to like myself. I am not here to impress you.

Dear person who may grow to love me,

Imagine a pair of lips. Imagine them screaming as they come out of their mother's womb. Imagine them eating and biting and licking and smiling and twitching and pulling down at the edges. Imagine them being touched and prodded and imagine them opening to let out words, whether it be simple speech or prose or Shakespeare's finest poetry. My lips and yours and everybody's lips have done these things, over the years, over the eternities. Maybe, just maybe then, my lips on yours would be another experience for both your lips and mine, maybe another memory.