My dad says I'm like an ocean liner.

Changing course is possible but I have to start miles before necessity
understanding that re-correction is slow 
& sometimes it won’t look like you’ve moved until you don’t wreck. 

This is not the first time he has said this to me. I’m sure it won’t be the last either. 
I have a habit of forgetting that today is today and tomorrow is tomorrow.
He says to start turning the wheel now. 

I wonder why we’re worried about me crashing
when I'm already full of debris
& taking on water.

I tried to find another word for devastation 
but couldn’t stop reciting my name. 
& I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow will be different. 

Maybe my dad is onto something. 
Today I may be devastation but perhaps I’ll get another chance. 
Perhaps tomorrow I’ll receive a new name full of less shipwreck. 

Maybe tomorrow I’ll look myself in the eyes
say thank you for carving the path I’ve walked
& mean it.

Maybe today is about the surrender. 
The offering that lies dormant in the fall.
The foundation that invites rebuilding.

Maybe today is about this poem. 
&  I’m not saying that this poem saved me. 
I’m not even saying that retelling my rendition of heartbreak is healing.

I'm saying I wrote this in lieu of dying and titled it salvation.
I stopped planning my funeral. 
I turned the wheel.