the day after tomorrow

i will do it the day after tomorrow. i will do it when the sun feels less like an interrogation, and my skin stops aching from the weight of my blankets. i will answer texts, fold the clothes, untangle the mess in my chest long enough to sweep the floor. i’ll brush my teeth like it means something. but not today. not while the silence keeps calling me back. i know this isn’t living. i know. but knowing and moving are countries apart. i keep promising myself a better self. one that rises with intention, one that doesn’t let coffee go cold three times before giving up. the day after tomorrow i’ll start again. the day after tomorrow i’ll believe that means something.