I’ll Write About It Until I Feel Done: Forever

Would you believe me now if I told you I was happy?

That I get why I was too much, too full of feeling that pushes people away?

That I see unhappiness in all its forms, how I want to push it away, too.

How difficult it is too be with difficulty.

How I brushed up against you wrong.

How hurts brush up against me & I think ugh, really?

Really, why can’t you be happy?

I can’t be happy because everyone is wrong, the temperature too hot, the earth warming,

my brother dead, my sister-in-law outlawed by death, the baby crying expecting me

to care for her. Oh, care: how to care for the people who are not OK?

The blessing of being left: figuring out who minds your great unhappiness

yet walks up the hill with me anyway, hoping I’ll see that sweat leads

to a bleeding out of all we cannot fix.





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