soft light

i hate my overhead lights. i never use them.

they’re gritty, taste and pierce like crunching glass

on a hot day, mixing and swirling with my white ceiling in a watery cocktail

of furrowed brows and gut wrenching reality too soon

my lamp brings warm color in the evening, a glow so soft

like taking a bite out of a warm cookie

helps me to imagine that the world is kinder

than i must make it out to be

the ache in my back for the world never stops

except when i turn on my lamp

my lamp keeps me safe and does not hurt my friends

anyone can share in this light my mother says no, no,

the light will strain and hurt your eyes

i would rather the light of this lamp hurt me

than that of the world

my stomach turns in frustration because

these are not the problems i should be complaining about

 

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