They ask, “How are you?” I say, “Good,”
as if one syllable could
undo the unravel,
as if calm were a place I could travel
just by saying so.

As if good meant whole.
Not hollow. Not holding. Not holes
in a voice note from days ago,
when goodnight meant don’t go,
and goodbye meant I already have.

See, “good” hides in the corners:
in tired good mornings sent across borders
where time zones tangle like limbs once did—
I say good,
but I never meant for this.

Good grief is grief in a Sunday suit.
A tidy way to name the mess.
A eulogy wearing perfume.
A fire dressed up like a candle.

We stretch it over pain
like bedsheets that don’t quite reach the edge.
We say it for comfort. We say it instead
of I’m lonely, or I’m losing,
or I’m learning to lie to myself gently.

There’s good in goodbye,
but only when you don’t look back.
There’s good in goodnight,
but only if you’re sleeping side by side.
There’s good in being good,
but only if no one asks too much.

So no—
I’m not good. I’m practiced.
I’m polished.
I’m passable at pretending.
But ask me again,
and I’ll still say it.
Because it’s easier than explaining
what "good" could never mean.