Photo by Aiden Nelson
I’ve been reading happy poems lately and feeling that feeling that swells in my chest like something small inside me is growing, like every molecule is lined up saying yesyesyes louder and louder, like there is something beautiful and full of purpose living inside my fragile skin. I want to write a happy poem. Something short and lovely, something about white wine on Saturday nights, curled up on a carpeted floor playing card games. Something about the almond croissants I like and how they fill my apartment with warmth and sweetness, and how steam spills out of them when I bite down. I want to write a happy poem about the green corduroy pants. About walking to the CVS to buy hair dye and listening to science podcasts, memorizing facts to tell my lover, like, did you know axolotls are only found in the wild in one specific lake in Mexico City? I want to write a happy poem, one that feels like I am blinking the haze away on a day off, and I stretch my legs and feel the sunlight hit my face, and every molecule is lined up saying yesyesyes, and in the poem, I forget to want to die.