Like it’s that simple.
Like I haven’t been trying.
Like saying “be happy” erases that I’m being put on the back-burner again
being used as a back-up plan
a last-resort when there’s nothing better to do
Saying “be happy” is supposed to change that he pissed me off again.
“Be happy.”
I want to be happy.
So desperately that I push too hard,
ask for too much,
move forward when I should hold back.
I dive in when I should dip my toes and test the waters.
Happiness is like a delicate bubble.
Beautiful and fragile and delicate.
Filled with possibilities and dreams and shine.
I want to reach out and hold it, touch it.
But when I do, the bubble bursts
and I am left with the mess and the disappointment.
“Be happy.”
I was happy once.
I had everything I’d ever wanted.
I was stupidly, ignorantly, trustingly, naively happy.
And it was a lie.
It was all ripped out from under me
I was knocked off my feet to tumble, stumble, crawl,
just to stand again.
I’m left to wonder if that happiness was ever real.
“Be happy.”
You would think I had been burned enough times.
That I would learn.
I should be more cautious, more slow to trust.
But that’s not me.
I’m trusting, optimistic, and romantic.
I’m naive and headstrong, impulsive and direct.
They say to trust your gut.
My gut tells me to run on in when I should be surveying the scene.
They say to use my head
But I over think, over analyze, over plan.
So afraid of doing something wrong
“Be happy.”
A work in progress.
A baby step every day.
Sometimes it’s two steps forward, one step back.
More of a dream, than a reality.
It might be not doing anything
even when I desperately want to do something.
I say that I’m happy because that’s what I’m supposed to be.
That’s what everyone wants to hear.
Because that’s what a strong, independent, amazing woman would say.
She wouldn’t say that she’s lonely, frustrated, impatient, heartbroken.
She wouldn’t be lost in this common, human, vague pursuit to
“be happy.”
