A letter to myself.

Throw away the stuffed puppy that your first boyfriend gave you and
get rid of the letters from the boy you dated for ten days
before he went back to his girlfriend.

On your bookshelf you have conversations from thirteen-year-old you's 4AMs.
Gather them up and burn them.
The forgiveness they hold is ancient and just because you no longer have proof
doesn't mean it wasn't real.
Besides,
you never should have needed contrition for caring too much.

Delete the playlist you made for the boy you fucked last winter.
You never gave it to him
and listening to something that makes you cry doesn't make you stronger.
It just makes you sad.

Crop the man who took your virginity from the portrait you drew.
Keep yourself
and the way your hair turns to the ocean.

Put your ex's cologne in a drawer somewhere until you forget what it smells like.
Don't open it until the next time you have a date--
put it on to remind yourself how gentle hands can be
and that his were not the only ones.

Repeat after me:
You are not
defined by the trinkets you keep.
You are not defined
by the things they deemed worthy to give you,
nor the things you created because of them.
You
are defined by the way you loved them,
and not by the way you hoarded it.
as if it would turn to smoke and slip through your fingers.
You are defined by the way you smiled at them and
the nights you spent with them but you are not
a souvenir.
You are not
a museum for them, you
are not
defined by the way you loved them.

You are defined
by the way you let them
go.