What I hate is the feeling of happiness. Salt,
water vessels dried out, unresponsive to
incidental music; my brain’s twirling from major
to minor gave way to paramount rations for prior
miseries. I dislike the boyfriend who dictates the phrase
another never would, who keeps yearning at bay
associating the dead child in this adult body with
his worn peacoat and wool scarf.
What drives me to happiness is walking in on
him and the other man in my life speaking of
bad plumbing and neglected wall suspensions; finally,
his occupation sparks an interest and a future son-in-law
to gush over. He loves me in the short time they’ve been
acquainted.
It breaks my heart to go to bed every night in this space immune
from prior susceptibility
to silent yells,
childhood ire,
painful missing,
familiar regret and
prior susceptibility.
It breaks my heart to go to bed every night in this adult body,
having spread the ashes of that dead child beneath the
sheets of exclusive, new warmth.
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