Someday Will Be Better
Someday will be better
One day you wake up and you live alone, even with two flatmates, and you buy your own groceries, when you can afford it, and you go to class and work and sometimes the gym. And you go to the doctor, and the dentist, and your therapist and your friend’s house, and you take the medicine that keeps you from killing yourself, and you get out in the sunshine and eat food that fills you and make barely enough money to stay alive anyway, and someday will be better, you know that, but someday isn’t today, and today your jaw is clenched and your thoughts are shrieks that hate your friends and someday will be better, but right now it’s all you can do to make ramen so you don’t have to use a knife because someday will be better and you better be around to see it, and your clenched jaw turns to gritted teeth and you can’t bring yourself to shower but damnit, you brush your teeth and think that someday will be better, and your gums bleed when you floss and you want to scream but you’ve been stopped up like a forgotten bottle of wine and you’re not sure you know how to anymore, and now you’ve been staring at your bleeding gums and the void in your gut aches and you --
collapse in bed.
You remember how to breathe.
Your heart is here. Your lungs are here. There is quiet between your thoughts.
You are here.
And someday will be better.
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hey man I found a piece of your soul stuck in the text messages of old friends you don’t speak to anymore. do you want it back
Dreams to have while walking home from the library
I read of mangroves, coastal forest far away protection against monsoons, a gnarled seawall – nature standing up against its watery cousin who would sometimes threaten death when cousin cried and overflowed with tears.
But mangroves are far away, small black and white image printed on trees so far from arboreal, trunks whittled down and forced into a single, bleached dimension to serve such a purpose now as to show a photo of a mangrove.
Just as flat and white, but the moon seemed closer that night. Closer than mangroves and monsoons. Back down to this autumn scene, now the maples stand burning all crimson Maroon leaves.
Monsoon trees. There is life here and now, then there is life in pictures and words. Our minds catch both in one fell swoop and they dance together in their captive company, lightly stepping but sometimes intersecting in their closeness – the impossible twirling of stony boughs become a nest for the granite moon, immobile limbs graced with the agility of dreams. Fancy flying one thought to the other, closing the distance and realizing two worlds mingling in an elegant, chaotic embrace. Mangroves holding the harvest moon, from both the truth and I so far, but so beautiful.
The instrumental becomes intrinsic if you let it
Alessandro Biffignandi
Where I'm From, George Ella Lyon
𝘈𝘳𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 💐💙✨
flush // april 13 2023
I used to dream of death
or blazing, blistering pain.
A mark of martyrdom above my
twisted, tortured brain.
But now I sigh and dream of life
and care for all my wounds
No need to be a martyr
I don't need no cocoon
Me: You know how when you were a kid and you’d wish that you’d get sick or injured in a way that would justify why you didn’t live up to your potential?
Everybody, apparently: No?
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