here is the truth of your life:
it is april. your clothes are wrinkled but clean. driving is still exhausting & scary & hard. you live twenty minutes from your best friends. you are still broken. you are still loved. there is a field outside your work where you eat lunch & read poetry. there is a couch you can sleep on whenever the migraines hit again. there is a friend who knows your winter shame & a little boy who grins when he sees you. it is april. it is almost your birthday. it is warm outside, & green & bright & spring. there are strangers reading your poetry. there are loved ones whose texts you've still left unanswered. there are new albums to look forward to. there are conversations that you would rather avoid. there are rewards for your bravery. there is a life you are about to celebrate, & that fills you with dread, & the dread fills you with sadness, but you still text friends & buy fruit & make plans. you are still angry with God, & scared & confused. you are tired, but not like you used to be. you are learning how to shelve books & check publication dates & keep track of inventory. the anxiety still hums, especially at night. the rituals have extended long past their usefulness, but your brain clings to them still. you have yet to find a church, or a doctor, or a therapist, but there is time. you are here. it is april. there is time. there is so much time.