Here’s to the new year.
When the clock hits midnight
and clean slates begin,
I wish to no longer be this version of myself.
Toasting to promises of new year, new me
as I begin life’s next chapter.
Maybe this will be the year I learn French,
or the year I finish the self-help books collecting dust on my shelf.
Maybe this will be the year I make my bed each morning,
or the year I write in the leather journal my grandmother bought me last Christmas.
Maybe this will be the year I am kinder to my heart,
or the year I allow myself to love again.
But as the ball drops and confetti pops
my pages are not burnt.
The bittersweet reality sets in as
my unmade bed is still empty and my cat
waits for me to stumble home
as if it was any other night.
Sure, let’s celebrate the new year,
but I’m still the
same.
exact.
me.