self care Rin Ryan to the suffering, the volatile, those picking up the pieces of a broken heart, i can tell you nothing but this; keep going. it will hurt less. you will wake up tomorrow morning and it will hurt less. you will make your coffee and eat your breakfast and it will hurt less. you will take care of your tasks for the day and it will hurt less. and when night comes, you may rest your head on the pillow and trust that tomorrow, it will hurt less. keep going. take your medication and brush your hair and it will hurt less. be on time to work and make your bed and it will hurt less. smile at babies even if you think they’re little piss machines, vectors of disease and tears, and it will hurt less. remember that once upon a time you too were a little piss machine, a vector of disease and tears, and it will hurt less. try not to be too jealous of the babies, and it will hurt less. keep going. delete the playlists you cry to and it will hurt less. take breaths so deep your lungs ache and scream and let them out all at once and it will hurt less. feel nature’s whims on your skin and the throb of your heart in your throat and the gentle brush of a puppy’s fur on your fingers and it will hurt less. eat full meals and ignore the little demon of hate in the back of your mind, blast taylor swift to drown out the thoughts beguiling you to harm yourself and buy yourself lattes with extra fancy oat-milk and listen to christmas music year round and wear neon colored sweaters and Tomorrow it will hurt less.
(6 impossible things) Before Breakfast Riddhi Setty
I woke up at 6:23 am with the birds chirping and a haze of sunlight revealing dancing dust. I got out of bed, put on my workout gear and did yoga. I could touch my toes. The universe opened up its arms and engulfed me in them, stroking my hair and whispering its secrets in my ear. I winged my eyeliner perfectly. I matched Beyoncé note for note as we belted out “Drunk in Love” in unison. I looked in the mirror and told myself I loved me. I meant it. At 8:32 am, I ate breakfast.
68 • American Literary Magazine