You have to be inside your body,
contained in a blood organism
that’s decomposing since birth,
while your planet and your sun
race neck and neck to heat
deaths of their own.
But while solar radiation
makes your home a Pompeii tomb,
you must be the ivy on the stones,
still facing toward the light and
fuelling your green new growth.
When your cynicism begins
to look more and more like truth,
hold onto movie naivety,
the idea that words are enough
to talk your way out of anything,
like your high school boyfriend
who made his final appeal
in a 7-Eleven parking lot
before pealing out in his coupe
with the horn held down
in a sad and angry wail.
And believe forgiveness exists
though you’ve never had an apology
offered or accepted, and stay alive
for the person you’ll be next
even if it feels like you’re becoming
just a collection of trauma.
Be content with your empty
apartment, though every friend
and warm body you bring home
explains what you’re missing—
a TV, a coffee table, a desk,
or food for your cabinets.
So when you’re asked to choose
between your two narratives,
either hung-over shame and despair
or the hopeful self-love
you still find in the mornings,
always tell both.