What no one told me
when I started healing
is that happiness
can hurt
and a bitter heart is
terribly familiar.
When a friend
says they're proud,
tears sting and well
because it's never been
our turn for this,
has it?
And I don't want
to seem dramatic
or thankless,
but a love like this
is so foreign
that I'm dumbfounded
in its presence.
*
What no one told me
when I started healing
is that happiness
grows from corpses
of difficult lessons
and disrespected
boundaries,
that we aren't always
what we eat,
that, like vultures,
we can consume fading
stories and turn
them into tomorrow.
If you can learn
to endure this cycle
of rebirth,
you might actually
believe this story
is yours.
*
What no one told me
when I started healing
is that happiness
is fought for
every hour
we don't settle
for discomfort,
an open heart
comes from knowing
what makes you stronger,
and when it's your turn,
wholesome love may come
unexpectedly.
New beginnings
can be dreadful
but, almost always,
easier than completely
letting go of who we
want to be.
About the Creator
Sam Eliza Green
Wayward soul, who finds belonging in the eerie and bittersweet. Poetry, short stories, and epics. Stay a while if you're struggling to feel understood. There's a place for you here.
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More stories from Sam Eliza Green and writers in Poets and other communities.
To Speak of Secret Futures
Our coffees cool between us on the breakfast counter. You stare at the curls of steam so you don't have to look at me. That's always been your tell. Usually your gaze speaks volumes, so when you refuse to meet my eye, that means you have a secret you don't want to say.
By Addison Alder4 days ago in Humans
Comments (2)
Thank you for sharing a space in your heart with me.
So beautiful, and so true! No one told me either. But even if they had, I wouldn’t have understood. You have to go through it to understand it. ‘What no one told me when I started healing is that happiness grows from corpses of difficult lessons and disrespected boundaries, that we aren't always what we eat, that, like vultures, we can consume fading stories and turn them into tomorrow.’ That is the most perfect metaphor. Yes, happiness requires one to be a scavenger. You can’t keep the same narrative that caused your misery, but you can take what you need from the carcass of it. This poem reminds me of a time when I broke down crying because I could feel my life changing for the better. I couldn’t explain to anyone what I was feeling or why, but I was mourning my old life. I knew things wouldn’t ever be the same. Of course I never could’ve expressed that so eloquently as you have. Thank you. 🤍