Unhappiness is a genetic
trait, passed down amongst the women in my family. For as long as I can remember, Misery’s hid in the crooks of our eyes. Where our tears were taught never to fall. Our eyelashes learned to be strong: hold things keep our eyes open. What happens next is So, I’m sorry, if you wanted to love a whole person. Two hands that divvy responsibilities, two feet, on soda cans, balancing the weight so neither gets too heavy. I'm made with one of each taught only to extend. But I can string together what sounds like a prayer, for a Friday night Kiddush though neither of us will know what we’re saying. I am a pauper because you think talk is cheap. I can only string words together: backwards hearts and upside down squares. It’s like us, geometry: it looks right—but it’s not. And I’ve thought of about a thousand ways to tell you that. But infinity is the opposite of definitive and our thumbprints are so unique that we could try to match them up forever but they will never be the same. I would rather not blame the people who built me but I am a flawed machine. My tears are blood, my spit is blood, the way you pronounce my name as you fall asleep is blood. The proud I cannot make you is blood. And I am unhappy.
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