Happy.

I don’t think I’ve been happy in quite some time.
It comes and goes, fleeting, like a shadow not quite in sight.
Days excited to speak to someone, anyone,
Days dreading looking, lest I be seen.
The knot in the middle, call the number, get it fixed.
“Fixed: mend; repair.” Imply broken-ness in something fault-less.
Something horrendous nears,
Something awful has passed,
Something unmentionable is here.
The pains, the tightness, the thudding,
Is it normal, all this fear?
Afraid of saying the wrong thing,
Afraid of saying the right thing to the wrong one,
Afraid of leaving this, that, undone,
Afraid of getting to the end of something that was never begun.
Begone from the imagination of those from our imagination.
What is that trembling, that trust extinguished,
That foreign presence in this skin?
The observation deck behind these eyelids on a glass covered abyss.
The mind forgets, it does so well. It warps, rewrites,
It hides, it lights, it obfuscates, it changes states, it changes,
It rearranges, invites in strangers to live within.
Happy is a dream, it means forgetting, it means pretending,
It means implying a structured sense.
I don’t want to stand on the glass aware of my opacity,
I want to be the glass, a-part of the reality
Not seen, but there,
Not brave nor scared,
Not good nor bad,
Not happy nor sad.
Aware of there, yet firmly here,
The one who sees, but also steers,
The one who feels without the why,
Who wants to live before they die.

Happy is just a word. Happy is not a place.

Melisa Im

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