Tomorrow, I’ll call someone to see about the overgrown weeds in the backyard. Tomorrow, I’ll see if my body will allow me to go for a walk—to drag it across familiar paths I haven’t seen in months in the hopes that my bones will not collapse in on themselves. Tomorrow, I will dye my hair—some strands purple, some strands pink. Tomorrow, I will call someone I love and forget to tell them that I love them. Tomorrow, I’ll be forgiven. Tomorrow, I’ll learn a mother language. I’ll say every syllable correctly. I will pass these words down. Tomorrow, I’ll go out into the desert. I’ll start a fire even though it is too hot for flames. I will see a bird. I will touch a lizard. I will build a tent even though I cannot picture my body inside of anything that is outside. Tomorrow, I’ll drink more water. I’ll climb a tree. I’ll keep my palms open. I’ll find true north. I’ll consider going there, tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’ll remember to eat. Tomorrow, I’ll believe what I say. Tomorrow, a caring and reluctant thank you. Tomorrow, I’ll be undefeated. Tomorrow, I won’t forget to do my stretches: the ones they’ve named after me because there are no other words. I’ll name myself after something that never arrives. Tomorrow, I’ll find another heaven. Tomorrow, I’ll shimmer. I’ll wear something colorful, with pieces of silk stitched together in odd places. Tomorrow, I’ll be stitched together in odd places. Tomorrow I’ll mean it. Tomorrow, I’ll keep the doors open—let the wind come through the windows and leave like it was never there. Tomorrow, I’ll be able to look myself in the mirror. It will be easy, tomorrow. I’ll learn how to ice skate. I’ll sharpen my blades to the point where they’ll have no choice but to glide. I’ll find a pond. I’ll wait until the water freezes over, transforms into something else entirely. I’ll keep my eye on the clock. I’ll wait all day. I’ll watch the sun go down, watch the sky turn pink, then blue black. I won’t think of how cold it will be. I won’t think of falling.