Things Get Worse Every Day

They say it like a warning.
I say it like a love poem.

Dear Los Angeles,

I held your hand
while you turned to hot ash
in between my fingers —
stood on my roof
watching the mountain
roll white fire
like it had finally
had enough.

I know the feeling.

To the left of those hills
a stack of houses,
palm trees in between like punctuation,
like the city is trying
to say something
it hasn't finished yet.

I try to look at the hills every day.
Gratitude practice.
Anger management.
Same thing, some mornings.

Some days I walk the neighborhood
to let it slough off
whatever the world deposited
while I was sleeping
and then jasmine.
Just jasmine.
Ambushing me mid-fury
like it has no idea
what's happening
in the news.

Seventy degrees.
A breeze you could not have curated
on your best day.
C'mon now.

My life caught fire first —
the metaphorical kind,
the kind that clears the brush
so something true can grow.
And then there it was,
actual fire,
as if I had willed it to be,
as if the city read my journal
and said
same.

Things get worse every day.
And every day
the jasmine doesn't care.
And every day
I walk back home
a little lighter
carrying something
I don't have a name for yet

which is what it means
to love a place
that is burning
and beautiful
and still
asking you to stay.

— Los Angeles, 2026