I

Can't lick those corrosive flares of doubt

At 2 am,

Lying on the couch,

Wondering if

Learning Russian or

Telling sharper jokes or

Actually flirting with guys

Would neutralize the acid that sears my throat

Every time I think about tomorrow.

But every time

I think

About tomorrow,

I realize it's clawing at me,

It's sneering at my flaws,

And it's puckering its lips, saying,

"Eat your heart out, baby.

I'm already here."