Aphasia

Happiness

I've never been one to write about happiness. I've never known how to write about happiness. Maybe it's because I spent almost my entire life never really feeling happy. I could write about despair though, and loneliness. I could write about being tired, so tired that pills tumbled down to the floor between chapped lips, and blood that dried on slit wrists. I could write about blades that buried themselves deep in flesh, and piles and piles of bandages that served as tombstones. I could write about bodies that turned into graveyards and skin that turned into battlefields and blood that turned into poison and thoughts that turned into bullets shooting in from one side of your skull, and shooting out the other. I could write about the nights, the sleepless dire nights when the stars feel too bright against the darkness of half-dead souls and the moon hangs low; sinister smile etched in a pool of navy where constellations drowned and surfaced back again gasping for air. I could write about how the only thing on hazy minds is the screaming; screaming for the heavens to split up and swallow earth because at that moment, there could be nothing more beautiful than death. I could write about the hollow inside bone when you can't stand straight, when each breeze pulls out a gust of life from your windpipe and everything hurts so much that you slump on the street groaning; but nobody will ever hear, because of course, ghosts are trapped in surreality and humans are not. I could write about crying until lungs flooded with oceans that could make the Pacific hang its head in shame, and about all the shipwrecks gathering seaweed at the bottom of clenching guts. I could write about how all the butterflies inside bellies died because throats dried and flowers wouldn't grow on desert sand that made insides burn like hellfire. I could write about loss and tearing at walls and cursing until voices crack. I could write about sinking into deep sweet oblivion and waking up three hours later clawing at eyes glued shut with dried tears. I could write about how glass hands feel on paper skin and how they do nothing but tear it apart until all that is left is shreds lying on the floor. I could write about anything but happiness until my pen ran dry and my paper ran out and my hands corroded to the bone. Because when I'm told to write about happiness; only one word comes to my mind and that's it. That's all I can say on the matter. The only happiness I've ever known and I think I ever will know is

You

― (one word answers), s.m.