That Fake Kind of Happy

my sad poetry was always

misunderstood by him

by the doorway he stood

begging me to be his bed partner

come and do the missionary thing

he said

but it was oh so boring

I said-

(to myself)

is that all there was to it?

what i had to look forward to forever

that i’d waited forever to do to begin with?

and of course now there was the guilt

That writing shouldn’t be more important

Than him, than us, than that thing we did for awhile.

so fine, i could do the bed thing

because i was doing the writing thing

and the wife thing

and the pretending this was working thing

and this was just another thing wasn’t it?

i didn't realize though

that this would become the moment-

that from then on

I’d always question

if i was worthy of the stories and poetries

i had yet to create

because i chose him

instead of me

that the sun that once rose

for a love that’s no more

stood frustrated and half asleep

in my doorway and dared ask

why is the poetry so sad anyway

(rolls eyes)

aren't you happy

(judgmental stare)

don’t I make you happy

(guilt)

why can’t you write happy

(insert moment here where i magically change my craft to suit his needs and not my own)

happyhappyhappy

sunflowersdaffodilsdaisysmarigolds

(break)

that was me, breaking myself to fit someone else’s mold...

(sighs)

you know,

with all the happy back then,

that i made myself believe i was-

what’s sad now

is how he just didn't know me at all.

and you really can’t love

what you just don’t know

what you refuse to know

can you?