Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

Try to get out of bed early, try to make your bed. Inhale.  
Your off-white bedsheets haven’t been washed in a month.
Try purchasing a new detergent, one of those that’s petal-scented:
2 in 1 Aroma Boost Spring Daydream Wash.
Try smiling in the mirror; especially 
If you have dimples. They’re the new “it” thing.

Inhale. Do yoga. 
Do yoga and dance. Catch your breath.
Go on YouTube and search up Boho Beautiful, pretend 
you’re a clean-girl white-flare has-it-together pilates almond mom. 
Make a protein powder banana-peanutbutter shake. Ignore its soil taste. 
Inhale and purchase some lululemon leggings. 

Write out your feelings. Inhale. Lie to your journal about
the ache hosted in your ribs.
Call it your “self-reflective daily diary,” where you
Write about a fond memory, your [insert therapy term] place, pretend
your year-long headache isn’t pumping your eyes out anymore.
Write about your childhood. Write about the dog you never had. 
Act like you finally know what’s caused your hollow.

Travel. Book your Ryanair all-exclusive roundtrip to 
Hanoi. Book a tourist bus. Go on a zip line. 
There, you will find yourself, and when that stranger 
Puts a conical hat on your head
You will thank them for healing you.
You will return, completely changed, smelling 
Like hibiscus flowers. Inhale and call your friends. 

They’d love to hear from you. Just not 
during your 5 AM seeping into icy bathroom floor tiles, 
or the third day in which you’ve needed to take extra sleeping pills
that made the window light look hazy.
Call them. Just make sure it isn’t during their own 
self-reflective cinnamon candle eating ritual.

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Inhale. There’s still time to save yourself.

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