i am the love letter. lillian grace
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Preface
Dearest reader,
Wow, okay! If you’re holding this book in your hands, I may have actually done it. A part of me wants to tell you to close it and read no further. I think that is why you must continue. I think maybe that’s why it exists in the first place.
This collection has been in the making since my sophomore year of high school, but the poems begin towards the end of my freshman year. No pieces were edited, no pieces were omitted. The catharsis I feel about releasing these poems into the world almost equally matches my fear of anyone ever reading them. To think that I am sharing my most intimate moments, those personal both with others and with myself, with anyone who so happens to order this collection makes me giddy with nerves. Saying that this is my truest act of bravery would be an understatement. This is the capstone of a seventeen-year journey to recognize and extinguish fear within myself.
I considered the concept of leaving all names mentioned in my poems in their original positions. Granting anonymity to those I’ve loved partially bothers me as a concept. The more I considered it, however, the more I realized that all names would prove is that I am incapable of the adage “forgive and forget.” Using malicious intent to speak identity into each of these poems would only go to prove that I have not grown at all. The fact that most of these poems were written as private gifts to love initially is enough of a band-aid to tear off for those written about anyway, I believe. Should you read this and recognize yourself in the lines, I think I want you to believe you are correct. There is a little bit of romantization in the thought of shipping a copy of this book to everyone I’ve ever loved. Obviously, I won’t do it, but it is incredibly poetic to think about. Putting this out into the world as a form of artistic expression instead holds much of the same effect.
The most profound part of my existence as a writer is that I think I will never run out of ways to write about love. It is one of those concepts that never gets old to anyone, but, to me, it is intoxicating like nothing else. I’ll admit, reading any of the poems towards the beginning of this collection feels like walking on broken glass. My command of language has visibly improved exponentially over the past four years. There is power, however, in providing a fully honest picture of myself and my perception of love, horrible poems and all.
So, why an index? Why chronological order? Why keep the bad poems present? Why do nothing more than a few grammatical and format edits? The obvious answer is “why not?” The actual answer takes a little more digging to get to. Much of the reason I write ties into my fascination with the concept of youth. On the opposite side of that, however, lies the reality: youth does not last forever. My biggest fear is that one day I will grow older and be one of those adults who looks at young people and only sees drama and misunderstanding. Personally, I think that misunderstanding is the most beautiful thing in the world. I notice, even now, seniors looking at freshman and ridiculing them for being exactly what they (we) used to be. I do not ever want to lose my sense of perspective. I do not ever want to forget how it feels to have everything carry the full weight of the world. Immortalizing my words in this way is my own personal safeguard against that fate. In creating a fossil, I am vowing to remain curious and craving.
I find myself hoping that, if I write a long enough introduction to this body of my work, every reader will understand it exactly as I would like them to. Aside from that being simply impossible, it also would be a disservice to me as an artist. Everything I give is open to interpretation. That includes this. That includes a glance into my snapshots of love and its full tsunami. I am entirely aware that you, dear reader, will not always know what I am talking about. I am also aware that you, dear reader, will take in my words with grace and trust. That is the purpose of literature. That is also the purpose of humanity.
It has taken me long enough to realize that, after all of this, I am the love letter when one falls in love with me. Whether you are the girl who kissed me for the first time, the boy I found myself avoiding eye contact with, the girl who victimized herself in the wake of choosing someone else over me, or the boy who still receives my love-poem-promises, I am still the greatest gift I ever gave you. I think that might be the most moving thought I’ve ever allowed myself to have. I think spending my life assuring that I learn how to devote myself to those interested in reading me rather than my work is the most valuable pathway. It is ironic to say that in the introduction to my first book, but it is the truth I have fought to reach. Thank you to all the false loves that have taught me such; you are the reason I insist on honesty with myself. That is a good thing. Thank you to the truer loves that have taught me more.
Thank you. Read with care. Trust that everything I say is true. It was. It is. It will be.
Yours and mine,
Lillian Grace
a dedication
To those who I said I would dedicate my 1st book to
To those who love me with honesty
To understanding and time
To genius hour
To you
litany of contents
FRESHMAN YEAR:
first girl
“maybe” forever
transatlanticism
honest
open letter to closeted queer young girls
leftovers
honest once more
+trying
jigsaw
today
“it was a war between people we didn’t even know”
weaponry
falling in reverse
a little more
SOPHOMORE YEAR:
are we ever really ready?
ghosts
what am i even looking at anymore
untitled
quieter ones
a breath
a song
the last one for you
post-it love poems
have mercy
everything i say to you that means i love you
naming love
artpop
midnight blue isn’t just one color
pleading
thank you
musings about everything
trust
naive
on living forever
subtler ways to say i love you
my work is beautiful
the one she read
a poem about boys on a new york subway
“will cutting my hair make the hurt go away?”
heart talk in an art museum
poet meets girl
a quiet kind of lovely
worst type of rainy day
three days
makeout
da poetry lounge
JUNIOR YEAR:
what i imagine when i think about falling asleep next to you
time zones again
love stories
distance
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