What Kills Me Isn't The Fact That I'm Sad; It's That I'm Feeling Better

I run my finger along my screen, tracing out the happy memories. They were happy, weren't they? My gut finally unclenches. When did it wrench its way into that position? How many weeks has it been like that? Months? Years? Since I met you.

Maybe they were once butterflies. I think now they're just anxiety.

Washing them away helps. That's the problem. I'm happier for this. When you do something like this you're supposed to be grief stricken. This is horrible, sad, and all around unpleasant. Yet here I am.

I'm so happy.
So happy.
So happy.
So happy.

This isn't a lie for once. I frown from the truth.