The Joy In Me

The joy in me is flat and grey.
I lift it up to give it light,
to make it airy,
to hope it will fly.

Cigarette burns
and perfume’s blue fire —
these memories
are all I have.

I wonder if I will still have them
somewhere inside me
when I am too old
to remember my own name.

I’m not sure I ever loved you.

That thought makes me happy.

The joy in me is bright.

I am bright.

At some point
you will bear the brunt
of my benediction,
and I will let you go

but for right now,
I accept the lovely, terrible fact
that I do not wish you
any kind of peace.

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