Dear,
I’ve written letters to family, friends, and strangers but never to you. Perhaps it is because I am unsure of where you are within our shattered pieces of self-worth. You don’t remain in a single moment of time but rather in many. You hop around through our timeline as if you are Alice’s white rabbit. I know that during your travels, you yell at the top of your lungs, asking yourself, “Why? Why me? Why am I not good enough? Why am I not beautiful or intelligent? Why am I not simply enough?”
I wonder where you are right now. Are you in the parking lot where our heart and soul bled out? Or can I find you in the phantom living room, sitting on the scarlet and amber chair, trying to create conversations that were never there? Perhaps you are in the bedroom, the TV on mute, as you sit in deafening silence, staring at the untouched plate of food. Or do you sit in the backyard with Depression and her children, watching them as they play and dance around the black and white cherry blossom tree? Where are you, Little Bunny? Have you found yourself running towards the alluring poisonous lake again, inhabiting the same space as the beast of a man they call Narcissus? Have you become the echo to that story?
I am here. Awaiting for your to return home to me. For as long as you take, I will wait until you are ready. I will be the first to admit that the same as the world has, I have been cruel to you, my love. You wear the indestructible mask remarkably so well- for us- as if we are not leisurely killing ourselves from the inside out. I broke you. I broke you until you became the small, insignificant, shattered fragments of yourself. Yes, I have been a ferocious host towards you. Chaining you up and taking you beyond tears of sorrow and dread, I have dragged and thrown you into the morbid abyss of nothingness. Yet, here I am, pleading and hoping that you trust me for the very first and last time in our lives.
Time is a liar here. It won’t erase your mistakes, nor will it give you back the heartbeats that you have missed. The stories that Depression tells you are merely fairy tales. So, tell me, where are you? I carry no weapons in hand, only half-healed wounds. I know our wonderland is not tea parties or whimsical tricks. It is a trail of horrific sights and sensitive bombs. A trail full of “we must not feel, we do not cry.” “We must carry the world on our shoulders without complaining and definitely without whining.” “We must take care of others and put their needs above ours because we do not matter.”  
However, the truth is, Little Bunny, we will never be enough. Not now or ever. We cannot be perfect, and we cannot carry the world as if we were Atlas. We are not a god. We are merely a human girl. We can only try to be a better person than we were yesterday. Come home to me. Plod your way along the treacherous road, for our mind is unbowed, just as the poem Invictus states. Collect your pieces, open your wounded heart, show your bruises, and breathe in the air of cherry blossoms and musk because we are not simply a single thing. We are as complex as our backyard tree. We are everything you want to forget and the future that might be. Do not give up on us and listen to my hums in the harsh winds, for I am very much real and not a delusion. I will wait for eternity or until the world ends, whichever comes first. Must I remind you that we have work to do? That we are enough for ourselves even if the world disagrees; we are here for a reason. Now come out of hiding, Little Rabbit, for I am no longer the wolf. I have always been the bunny, too. Besides, this picnic is for two.
Sincerely,
C.R.