CW: suicidal ideation, mentions of blood
I think I’m committing a slow death
but tomorrow I will re-pot all my succulents
and produce a bowl of bile to watch and
write a poem again. Tomorrow
I won’t meet my friends but help my sister
squirm an English-speaking muscle and watch my
snails grow out of their shells. Tomorrow awaits
as long as I keep sustaining. Tomorrow comes
in a form of one foot in, one foot out;
Tomorrow does not come with sleep but the day
after tomorrow does. Tomorrow I will
reshelve all of my spices and hang
all my clothes: shirts and pants; I know it’s unorthodox
but even the t-shirts. Tomorrow is filled
with unnecessary tidiness and promises
of yesterday. Tomorrow I will extend the due
date for the borrowed scenes of space war
from the library and reserve more; I will
fill the suggestion box with a poem that kills
a snowman and fold the pages of a travel guide.
Once, tomorrow was a natural thing that abide
by the law of time and ungratefulness. Now
tomorrow drags its feet with a dead—
line for all but tomorrow I will trim my nails
and pick up some pills. In fact, tomorrow
I’m going to puncture my scar and draw
blood, watch the sure stream of the crimson creep
up into the syringe, to be taken away. An eventual
tomorrow will come on the day
I die; but the day of tomorrow
I will still be writing in my notebook
with fingers that smell like my inside and
burn them with acid. A friend will ask what
are you up to? and I will say I’m trying to revive
a succulent by giving it time and space
to grow and wait for tomorrow,
when it might all work out.
but tomorrow I will re-pot all my succulents
and produce a bowl of bile to watch and
write a poem again. Tomorrow
I won’t meet my friends but help my sister
squirm an English-speaking muscle and watch my
snails grow out of their shells. Tomorrow awaits
as long as I keep sustaining. Tomorrow comes
in a form of one foot in, one foot out;
Tomorrow does not come with sleep but the day
after tomorrow does. Tomorrow I will
reshelve all of my spices and hang
all my clothes: shirts and pants; I know it’s unorthodox
but even the t-shirts. Tomorrow is filled
with unnecessary tidiness and promises
of yesterday. Tomorrow I will extend the due
date for the borrowed scenes of space war
from the library and reserve more; I will
fill the suggestion box with a poem that kills
a snowman and fold the pages of a travel guide.
Once, tomorrow was a natural thing that abide
by the law of time and ungratefulness. Now
tomorrow drags its feet with a dead—
line for all but tomorrow I will trim my nails
and pick up some pills. In fact, tomorrow
I’m going to puncture my scar and draw
blood, watch the sure stream of the crimson creep
up into the syringe, to be taken away. An eventual
tomorrow will come on the day
I die; but the day of tomorrow
I will still be writing in my notebook
with fingers that smell like my inside and
burn them with acid. A friend will ask what
are you up to? and I will say I’m trying to revive
a succulent by giving it time and space
to grow and wait for tomorrow,
when it might all work out.
Dabin Jeong (she/they) is a poet whose work explores East Asian representation, Asian/American identity, and the immigrant experience through creative and academic praxis. Her translation of a Korean poet Lee Hyemi’s “Solitary of Dance” appeared on Chogwa zine. She is also a poetry editor at The Hanok Review. Twitter: @dabinjeong___.