Break slowly, as if the pain in your temple hasn’t crippled you yet,
and your spirit endures softly still, whispering haunting sorrows
while you pour your coffee or walk up the stairs in the morning.
Pretend you’re not listening. Tell yourself it’s a lie and that you aren’t a burden,
or that everything will be fine isn’t just an impostor,
come to creep under your pillow and distract you for the night.
Pretend you don’t believe in make-believe, or that even the smallest nicety is a counterfeit,
as if the revels and good wishes of kind men are tricks thrown by charlatans,
as if the good in your life is a fabrication, a play put on by those closest to you,
fit with wooden candy canes and dresses made of cheap fabric,
masks of actors whose veils are so easily torn.
Imagine yourself happy, in a few years or so, pouring coffee with a silent mind.