too soft for this world
swaddled in lambswool
sheltered from struggle
the years I spent
breaking things,
aching for rough edges
to sharpen and scar me
ritual counting
daily roster of good fortunes
you asked me “what is happiness?”
and I told you whatever it is
it is restless, coming and going
pensively invented narratives
masquerading as fact,
pouring forth, incomplete
on crumpled leaves
tossed away, hidden from judgement
safe and stunted