January [13] 2017 - spilled milk

I write poems as odes to young girls
hoping that my old self is somewhere
hearing our experiences, 
learning from our mistakes.

I was too stubborn before to take advice
but I might, if I knew it was coming from
the place I was meant to be in the future
you know, like, destiny. 
If I write these words on the walls
of a heart still attached to my youth
could I impart to her my present truth?

And I know I shouldn't cry over spilled milk
but I think that trying to un-spill it
is a different kind of futile.
Maybe it will prove useful, 
to someone else.