I've always known that I can't write happy poems
happy poems are inspiring,
unsure, a fantasy.
and there's something about insincerity that disrupts the beauty of poetry
So instead I write about pain, and wounds, and melancholy
I write about it so often that I have become fluent in the language of sadness
I can tell you the whole history of every scar
and I can show how crippled my heart has become
But I can't tell you the last time I was happy
or if I was ever happy.
happiness feels so foreign in my mouth
but the thorns in my throat feel like home,
a broken and dysfunctional home.
But home nonetheless.
So keep this in mind, beloved one,
I would love you with my broken heart
but it would never change the number of poems I would want to write when I look at you.