I've always known that I can't write happy poems happy poems are inspiring. happy. unsure. a fantasy. and there's something about insincerity that disrupts the beauty of poetry
so I write about pain, and wounds, and melancholy I write about it so often that I have become fluent in the language of depression I can tell you the whole history of every scar and I can show how crippled my heart has become
but I can't tell you the last time I was happy or if I was ever happy. happiness feels so foreign in my mouth but the thorns in my throat feel like home. a broken and dysfunctional home, but home nonetheless.
so keep this in mind, beloved one, I would love you with my broken heart but it would never change the number of poems I would want to write when I look at you.