Rose-Colored Denial

Seeing the world through rose-colored glasses isn’t a gift;

It’s a skill.

Well-rehearsed and mastered.

“You are sunshine” they say,

And I want to believe them.

But I know the further we dig, the deeper the hole.

So I burry her in it.

The hollowness I create,

Amplifies.

So I drown her out with crowded airports,

And invented anxieties,

Only to find her in my luggage.

So I throw it away and blame it on the airline.

“A new beginning!” I say.

Because I’d rather be missed than be seen.

So I smash the newly planted clover on the kitchen tile and blame it on the dog,

Because I’d rather clean up dirt and plant new flowers,

Than witness their wilting petals.

Or wait for them to bloom.

When I am alone,

I brew a pot of “Positivitea” and put on my lucky socks.

I blow the steam into tiny tornadoes and think about who I used to be but am no longer.

I smile and call it reflection,

Feeling finally at ease,

Putting on my rose-colored glasses,

And looking into the mirror.