I heard it was beautiful out today.
I didn’t notice.
I spent hours laying in bed,
picking at my wounds.
It’s ironic that my pool of tears
is the only kind I spend time swimming in.
It’s ironic that I can damn near drown,
but still feel like I’m safe.
I took the time to place my problems
on an imaginary table,
in the hopes of sorting out which ones would go away first.
I quickly saw that there was nothing I could do for any of them.
I noticed that they all had something in common:
Each one was out of my control.
Poet: Stefanie Parrott