Our problems feel so personal,
Like a knife designed to cut
In all the weakest spots.
And we can look at lives apart from ours -
Shining, golden in their
Perfection.

And a yearning can rise up within, a hunger
That doesn’t abate -
I wish I had their life,
That hollow space whispers.

But pain overwhelms those lives,
A personal pain that we’ve already
Overcome.
Issues that we can’t even fathom,
Hid behind every picture-perfect
Smile.
Destruction that comes in forms
We’ve never even seen -
Insidious, hidden, all-consuming.

Or maybe, their life is perfect
(if there ever was such a thing).
Maybe it’s golden, and full of love
And light, and
Promise.
And I’m happy for them, truly
And yet, I would never trade my problems
For theirs.