You Better Believe It

By Morgan Williams


In my dream last night, 

I met up with my younger self. 

I hadn’t seen her in a while, and

I bought her a coffee. 

As I sipped my tea, 

she looked at me expectantly, 

all soft around the face, 

and I wanted to tell her so much. 


I wanted to tell her that in two years,

she’ll forget what they said 

that made her hate so much. 


I wanted to tell her that she doesn’t 

need to be in a new place to make a change.

That the myth she has created of freedom

being hundreds of miles away 

will only stunt her growth. 


I wanted to tell her that these scars 

won’t be so noticeable in two years’ time. 


I wanted to let her know that this softness

doesn’t have to be a burden, 

one I can see her carrying on sagging shoulders. 

I hope that she can see how I’m sitting up straight. 


She was waiting, 

twiddling her thumbs. 

As I watched them go around and round, I

stared at her, and missed having that fire 

I could see burning behind those green eyes

keep me warm. 


I wanted to hand her the book— 

the book of people she will love and lose,

the gems of humanity found in

supermarkets and late night drives, 

in unexpected texts and inside jokes— 

the book of blood, sweat, and tears. 

The book of laughter, lessons, and gaping holes. 


But I didn’t want to ruin the story. 

I did, however, 

want to make sure she would be around to see it.

So I settled for reaching across the table, 

taking her hand in mine, 

and pushing the prophecy into it: 

You’ll be okay, kid. 


Frothing and Mad                                                                Let There Be Posies