the good.

I was never one to hold good with gentle hands.

More like spread, rigid fingers.

Aware that the feeling of good would eventually slip through and become a distant memory.

This is not because I feel I don’t deserve good, I know I do.

More because good things left me without asking for my opinion.

I cannot make good stay.

I cannot make good see me.

I cannot make good hear me.

I cannot make good love me.

Good things let me go so many times that it became numbing, expected.

I didn’t know how to have a good thing sit with me in my trauma,

I wouldn’t do it.

Call it pride or blindness

Call it sad or disheartening.

No words made it better.

Good wasn’t one for difficulty,

Wasn’t one for the stick-through.

And I have never been one for patience or wishful thinking.

So maybe it’s naive,

But, I hope you’re the good that changes all of that