im "the happy friend"

the "happy friend" isnt supposed to rely on drugs for happiness

the "happy friend" isnt supposed to wake up everyday, and wish they still were dreaming

the "happy friend" isnt supposed to be the mediator of family fights

the "happy friend" isnt supposed to avoid looking at themselves at certain angles

the "happy friend" isnt supposed to constantly **** in their tummy- making sure they're still paper thin

the "happy friend" isnt supposed to lay in bed- tears welling in their eyes

the "happy friend" isnt supposed to feel the constant weight of the universe resting on their chest

why would i feel that

after all

i am the "happy friend"

I look at someone else's poem
And I see flawlessness.
I look at my own
And I see nothing but flaws.
I write poetry to get away from the bad feelings.
Not to make more.
And it's hard.
Everything is hard.
I've become hard.
Hardened to the beauty of the world.
Hardened to the beauty of poetry.
All I can focus on is my own writing
As I try to be as good
As you.

Been a while since I took them, the little keys to sleep. Unlock codes for unconsciousness, cheat codes for non-committal death.

But tonight the pain is unbearable, the mental wounds are bleeding like they’re fresh. Scenes replaying in my mind constantly, mocking me mercilessly for believing that they’d left.

Time is supposed to be a healer, or so I’ve been told. Time must have missed me off it’s to-do list because  healing is a card I’ve never been dealt.

The pain is effervescent bubbling through my veins and laying heavy on my chest. Tramadol couldn’t even dull it, it demands to be felt.

My only recourse are these tiny promises of temporary respite; I take more than recommended, playing roulette with this life.

It’s been a while since I took them, the little keys to sleep, I wish I could leave them but I’m weak.

but what's the cost?
i'm picking the good choice,
so why is it picking back at me?