stagger

sometimes the sadness
wraps itself around me
like an old sweatshirt, swimming to my knees.
is it possible to be comfortable
in unhappiness?
the bad jumps at me
like bold black text in a story,
daring me to stare.
three words on a page are minor
to the paragraphs of good.

i will myself to remember
what bad really is,
negotiating with my heart,
telling myself it’s okay.

stagger