My tongue lies and says,
“I’ll do it tomorrow.”
But the lie isn’t in putting off.
The lie is in pretending
tomorrow exists.
Like I will wake up
in a different bed.
That the sun will find its way
through the darkening curtains
I hung to keep it out.
That the air will taste crisper,
my sheets will feel softer,
the sun brighter,
and my mind easier.
I braid my guilt like a to-do list,
spit out a mouthful of wine,
and lie again that tomorrow
will wait for me.
But my tomorrow isn’t a loyal dog.
There is no pretense.
There is no dog.
There is no tomorrow.
And still, I speak it,
as if the act of saying
can summon what never comes;
what I’m too afraid to bury.
s.g
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
The Official Poetry Collection of WSS
