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.
1 thought on “I’ll Write About It Until I Feel Done: Forever”
How do I check “love” here?