Holding Light

I cup happiness like water in my palms,

watching it seep between my fingers

no matter how tightly I press them together.

Each drop precious, each loss

a small defeat I swallow quietly.

Some days I am an archaeologist

of my own joy, brushing dust

from buried moments—

the way sunlight looked that Tuesday,

how coffee tasted before the weight

settled back onto my chest.

I practice smiling in mirrors,

stretching unused muscles,

building strength for when

visitors arrive and ask

how I am, really how I am,

and I need to lift this mask

that grows heavier each day.

The depression sits patient as fog,

not cruel, just persistent,

muffling every bright sound

until even laughter feels

like shouting underwater—

the effort exhausting,

the echo strange and distant.

Still, I gather small rebellions:

making the bed anyway,

buying flowers for no reason,

calling the happiness back

like a cat that's gone feral—

approaching slowly, speaking softly,

leaving food on the doorstep

of my weary heart.

Some nights I count victories

smaller than anyone knows:

I showered. I ate something green.

I didn't disappear entirely

into the gray static

that hums behind my ribs.

And when happiness comes,

tentative as spring,

I try not to clutch it

too desperately,

try to let it rest light

in my open hands,

grateful for its brief warmth

before it takes flight again.