Getting Better

It gets better.
These words are my lifelines,
boueys thrown to me by my friends
as I try not to drown in my own emotions.
Sometimes I believe it.
Most times I don't;
it's a riot in my head,
a cold war spun from conundrums,
threatening to burn my life away.

I want to get better.
I say this as if it's some cold I'm afflicted with,
like someday the ailment will go away,
and I'll burst out my room
shimmering like light condensed into jewels,
my mind
more neurotypical than ever.
Sometimes I believe this.
Most times I don't.
My own thoughts push and pull in my head,
questionable – yet, so familiar;
they burn and freeze at the touch,
threatening to come out,
yet stalling to move forward.

Maybe it gets better.
This last line to me seems
almost
logical and fair, it is an equation comprised of
all the good things that could happen,
plus all the bad things that could happen
equals you.
If I drown, may this be my last line
like a kiss on my lips,
smelling as sweet as Lycoris flowers.
Most times I believe this.
Sometimes I don't