or "one day I won't be too afraid to search for my shadow"
They taught me how to seize the Day before
they taught me how to greet it and now
waking up in the morning feels like preparing for battle.
In kickboxing class I learned to
never turn your back on your opponent.
My future and I faced each other, locked gazes,
under-eye baggage and all--
All bruised knuckles and dodged punches.

I didn't expect easy loving or longingly lovely
Jane Austen gazes from across the room but
I really hope we can grow to be one of those angsty
YA enemies-to-lovers stories I pretend to hate.

I refuse to believe that my only options
are risking a fat lip or running away and hoping
time won't catch up to me.

I want to breathe deep without the bitter taste of
wasted potential.
I want to watch the sunrise and not think
I'm wasting my time.
I want to walk peacefully between who I am and
who I was and
who I hope I get the chance to be.

The other day I woke and thought, plainly to myself:
I'm glad I got to meet Today.

I have a feeling the two of us could get along
quite nicely.

I turned 23 the other day and it was strange. I have never been big on birthdays because they always felt kind of...vain? Anyways, a few years ago, I had a friend tell me that I should always celebrate things like birthdays and anniversaries and that they love any opportunity to celebrate the fact that I just exist. It's weird to have someone tell you that they're glad you're here and are excited about your general existence. I guess, I've never been one to celebrate anything about myself, unless others expect it of me. I've also never been good at goals and stuff. Possibly because every time I made a goal I lived in constant and debilitating fear of never reaching it. Possibly because I'm lazy.

When I was in high school, I started planning these things called "little futures." They were really just planned activities, not really complicated or anything. It could be that on Friday night, I'm gonna take a really hot shower and watch half a season of Merlin. And, whenever life got hectic or I got unsure or fell into a seemingly endless hole of anxiety about how my presence on Earth means very little and probably will always mean very little to pretty much everyone, I would stop and think: yeah, but at least on Friday I get to lay in bed for four hours and watch Arthur Pendragon be an asshole. And that's what did it for me; that's what got me through. 

I kinda stopped doing this in college but, especially in these desperate  and seemingly endless days of plague, I think I'm gonna pick this thing up again. I mean, I've written tons about my complicated relationship to the idea of "the future" but I have rarely talked about how I cope with that fear of the endless nothing and void of possibility that exists in all things at all times. 23 is not a glamorous year but at this point, I don't particularly give a shit. Imma roll with 23. I'm gonna re-watch Merlin and take hot baths on Friday nights. It's not like there are more exciting things to do in ~these unprecedented times~ or anything. We have so few hours on this earth (literally! The whole place is actually going up in flames! Revolutions are knocking every five to six hours and the devil shows his face regularly on the TV screen!) so why not cut some of that big picture crap and make a few little futures for yourself. 

I have absolutely no fucking clue if or when our government will listen to the screams of its people and I'll continue to do my part to put some stress on the heartless motherfuckers but at least on Friday I get to take a shower so hot the spirits of everyone who died in blazing agony in Pompei all those years ago start to sweat, and I get to watch some absolutely spectacular and under-appreciated 2010s fantasy TV. 

Parking Lot Palm Reading
This is your life line.
 
It is long, though you can’t seem to picture it. From a young age, you were convinced you would die at a young age. The thought of fragile bones and silver hair turns your stomach sour. You have always been a seeker of wisdom but never willing to give it your years. Always the grandson and never grandfather—old soul, chasing youth.
 
This is your love line.
 
It’s there, I promise. Starting strong at your mother’s cord. Thinner now but growing later. This branch here is your first lover. You still feel the pain of the breaking, the retreat back to trunk and roots and ever-firm ground. Can you recall the exact moment you convinced yourself that tears didn’t complement the shape of your cheekbones? If only you knew how many of our hands are scarred with broken branches that just couldn’t hold up the weight of our hearts.
 
This here is your head line.
 
You seem to have a million good ideas that you’ve convinced yourself aren’t worth the ten bucks you paid for last night’s 12-pack . To be quite honest, most of them aren’t. But there’s that one that lives near your nape on the right side that could be the one if you’d just risk it. Shit, that one is worth a lot more than the hot air of your father’s appraisal. You lie awake at night as its potential cuts deep into your flesh. Do not let it whittle away at you.
 
And this one is your fate line.
 
Why do you run from this life you have made for yourself? Why can’t you acknowledge the worth to be found in its humble imperfection. The ceiling of your studio apartment leaks when the rains get rough. You tell your mother about it on the phone. She asks why you don’t get it fixed or tell the landlord and you are ashamed to tell her that fixing it would bring you somewhere too close to too-good-to-be-true and what the fuck did you do to deserve that? So you put out a bucket and let the dripping be your lullaby. You’ve written lyrics. They go:
 
“Trading your good for the chance to be better
Is more of a gamble than I think it should be.
But there’s got to be something else other than this thing
Cuz that’s what they all say on morning TV…”

-L.V.Morton

I promise, I am listening
She says:
“You know you’re pretty pretty, right?”

I try not to let her two cents fall to the floor.

It frustrates her
that I can’t seem to take the compliments she hands to me. They
slip through my fingers
with a nervous laugh. When I bend to pick them up
I find them too heavy to carry.  She takes them from the floor,
as if they weigh a cloud and a breeze,
and wraps them around me
like a favorite sweater.

She says:
​“You deserve sweet kisses and long hugs. Everyone does.”

I tell her about how bad I am at hugging. That I never know
where to place my arms and always squeeze too tightly.

What if I hold on for too long?
​
She tells me:
“There is no such thing.”

I’m working on believing her.

She says:
“Don’t waste your time kissing boys with no lips. 
Don’t waste your loving on people who won’t say it back.”

Says:
“I hope that one day the compliments will be easier to carry and, on that day,
you wear them like a crown. 
If you want,
I’ll help you hold them until you’re ready.”

-L.V. Morton

In all the stress and hustle of the last few weeks of life, I nearly forgot that one of my favorite times of the year is upon us: National Poetry Month. I usually try to challenge myself to write at least one poem every day during this season but, due to the loops that my life has been tossed through recently, I choose to, instead, focus on a project with less deadlines but more heart. 

Over the past few months, I've been writing poems "after" people. Some read more like letters to friends and others read like confessions. I like to believe that our stories of relationships can be relatable and personal at the same time. To save postage during this time, here is the first of a series of poems/open letters I've written and will write about the people in my life and the ones who have left me along the way. Written about a year ago, here is the first selection from i hope you never realize this one is about you.

​Life has eaten its way between us.
This message has been overdue
since the beginning of time.

I’m jealous of the space between you and me
because it is that much closer to you
than I’ll ever be.

I ask for your forgiveness
and your remembrance,
though I fear I don’t deserve either.

I know the dull ache 
of a sprained memory
and the sharp pain of being forgotten.

So, if this comes as a surprise to you,
my friend,
I hope it is a happy one.

-L.V. Morton

-L.V. Morton