"I don't like you when you're happy,"
she said to me,
her thin wisps of red-gold hair twisted by the wind.
"You bother people. How selfish of you to be that way!"
Part of me knows
that she only means herself:
that I annoy her when I'm happy
because she herself is never happy.
Part of me fears
that what she says is true, universally.
If it is so, what use is it
to me to live?
The pain of that idea--
that when I am full of joy,
when I am most myself,
I must be rejected--
colors the world dull.
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