wash your hair.

it smells like stress and sweat, smoke from your friends and burnt oil from the heat of last week. you won't need any of that tomorrow. caress your scalp and slip your fingers through each strand, gently. when you're rough and fast, you break. the same goes for everything else. so, wash your hair. it'll thank you for it tomorrow.

clean your room.

your outfit from tuesday is still lying on the floor, and everything you've ever planned for is there too. a doodle from english class. a love story between men, one missing and one mourning. an article about why being positive is healthier for you. another about why you hide your pain. poems from yesterday, yesteryear, crying out to you. the past takes up every inch of this dusty space. clear it out. wipe it down. put it back where it belongs. so, clean your room. it'll thank you for it tomorrow.

journal.

write about anything. the love you have, the words you don't. the fatigue in your bones and the thirst that comes with being far from home. droughts were never easy, never for you; tell this quiet page about that. write about your favourite song, about the story that's tingling in your fingers, about whatever you're hiding in that heart of yours. so, journal. it'll thank you for it tomorrow.

breathe.

i know you don't get the time to. your life throws its needs at you, and that's where you are—knee-deep in everything that must be done, close to boredom if you move too fast, close to drowning if you move too slow. take a moment. let the water pool to your knees. it will not die if you steal these seconds, will not wash away should you sit within yourself. you can already hear your mother: nothing will work if you don't. now, hear me: nothing will live if you don't. nothing will grow if you don't. so, breathe. it'll thank you for it tomorrow.

sleep.

rest your eyes. that is all i ask. slip into bed with your heater on. puff the pillows for as long as you need to. find your peace somewhere far away—in dreams where no one can touch you, in the lives lived inside of you. let these six, seven, eight hours sink into every inch of your flesh, every joint in your bones. so, sleep. it'll thank you for it tomorrow.

when that pain starts to circle your head and your chest feels like it holds more than one heart, i want you to find me. find this. read it slow. let your tongue knead into it. let each word find a place in your body to call home—to call truth. so, find me.

i'll thank you for it tomorrow.