Write about something good, she says.
Something happy.
Something I can read about on a Sunday evening to feel better.
So I try. I try to wake up at 7.
I try to wash the hurt from my face.
The disappointment from my hair.
The melancholy from my elbows.
This is all there is, I tell them.
This is all we get.
To write about something good, you must be good.
The heaviness sits on my chest like a stubborn toddler.
I have one friend who wants to die too.
We know suffering won't make us special.
We don't want to be special anymore.
If I'm happy in a dream
If I'm happy in a dream does that count?
One day the toddler will grow enough to reason with.
And I will tell her, quietly, politely,
To get off my chest.
