Happy Things

“Don’t you ever write happy things?”

My mother clicks her tongue
And chides me
For dripping solitude
Onto paper
“Don’t u write about happy things”
She wonders aloud
And I want to tell her yes,
I do.
But those words paint pictures
Tucked away in crevices
Behind my eyeballs
I won’t share them with the world
They are delicate enough
That looking at them directly
Might dissipate their
Woven ecstasy entirely
I must tread lightly
Without intention to clarify
Because that’s reserved for the
“Bad stuff”
Every unresolved, intangible
Enigma is served to the world
On a half cooked platter
Because even if I can’t
make sense of them
Maybe someone else can.