Sometimes I want to
tear my larynx in a primal scream,
“Fuck you and your happiness”.
But I know I would reach to catch
the words in my palms and,
in a gesture of prayer, dissolve them to dust
before they reach your ears.
All of the things I cannot change,
trickle through my fingers as
I clench the fist of my discontent.
I am torn between
empathy and cynicism.
I try to be better, but
appreciation is a practice,
one I have to make more time for.
And I can’t even be mad at you, because I know it
is just me who feels these things.
A footnote in your story,
cited and neatly placed in the
bibliography for reference, but
not important enough to be part of your tale;
an option to be skimmed over.
So, I guess, congratulations.
You get to write about being happy
while I remain.
by Erik Shinker