I never thought that I would write happy poetry.
I hate that word.
It sounds so naïve and juvenile.
I figured I would always be broken inside. Always drunk or stoned or blowing up or chasing the high I haven’t had since I was thirteen years old, rolling on the floor of my best friend’s house. Her sisters thinking I was crazy. I sat on the waterbed and inhaled air freshener and duster and laughed and laughed. I drank rum straight from a tiny bottle and smoked stolen joints while incense billowed up around us. I think my first time was so good that I pursued it for twelve years. I didn’t realize that being in love does the same thing.
I fancied myself in love so many times. The one who lasted, until I actually got him and saw how terrifying he really was. The gruesome man-child who granted me an extended hospital stay, courtesy of a boot to my face. The boy who loved me to the point of obsession, causing me to pity him.
But this…This love is different. I roll on the floor, shrieking with laughter. No thoughts or cares, no paranoia or fear or anxiety or depression. It’s like being a new teenager, smoking joints that my friend’s mom had hidden in her room, paper crackling as sweet smoke coils up inside my lungs. Exhaling in a rush because I can’t hold the joy in any longer. The high I’ve been chasing, it wasn’t inside of a bottle, or behind a venue, or in a bong, or heated up in a spoon. The high I’ve been chasing was love.
Reciprocated. Innocent. Free. Natural. I suppose happy would be the right word, because I feel naïve and juvenile. Like nothing can hurt me. Like the world is mine, but with no anger behind it.
I don’t want to burn this city. I want to bring light to it, and show everyone how easy it is to hold perfection.