If I didn't believe in tomorrow
I wouldn't have a today,
or even a yesterday
to speak of.
That's because my tomorrow is bright,
colorful;
It's new and foreign...
My tomorrow is my do-over,
my cleanse.

Tomorrow promises that I'll be
eighteen,
finally able to grow into

the person I'm supposed to be.
It promises that I won't be stuck
in this room

   ...in this apartment

              ...in this city

forever.

That I'll sleep without

having to worry about

being awoken by the sound of

a violent scream,
or deafening crack,
or sickening slap of hand hitting body,

again and again.

It promises that I'll sleep without

first spending hours planning—

wishing—
for the end of a life

that hasn't even started yet;

That I'll sleep without

first spending hours hating a life

that I haven't given a chance yet.

I think of tomorrow

and I think of finally meeting people in dorms

who are into what I'm into,
who'll stand for what I stand for.
I think of tomorrow

and I think of traveling to the east coast,
where all cultures mix and blend

before spreading out to the rest of the pot.

Where I see more shades of brown than I do white.

Where I'm not confined

to what I've seen or done,
but where I'm just a guest

to what's to come.

My hope for tomorrow

is the only thing pulling me out of my head,
out of my bed in the morning.

It's the only thing I have to explain

why I'm still here
and why I keep being here.
 

It's my thin lifeline

keeping me from the end,

and it's all I need.