Through Rose-Coloured Glass

I’ve learned to live
in the pause between disasters—
to stretch the silence until it sings,
to wrap ordinary days in gauze
so the sharpness won’t break the skin.

I do not look too closely.

The dishes shine in the sink,
sunlight filtering like grace
through windows I’ve stopped washing.
Dust dances on surfaces I do not disturb—
testaments to everything I’m not ready to touch.
Let it settle.
Let it stay soft and unsaid.

This is the art of continuing.

Of dressing the wound in laughter.
Of sweeping truth beneath the rug
like a faithful ritual,
like the house will collapse
if I lift the corner.

I wear optimism like armour
painted the shade of denial—
not because I believe it,
but because belief
has nothing to do with survival.

And survival
has always been the assignment.

So I nod. I smile. I bloom
in all the expected ways.
I build gardens on land that remembers the fire,
place daffodils where the burn still breathes.
I toast to tomorrow
with a voice that shakes
and hands that don’t.

I do not look too closely.

Because if I did—
if I allowed my eyes to adjust,
if I peeled back the pretty,
if I admitted how much it hurts
to live with a mouthful of silence
and a heart that misfires on joy—
I might never find my way back.

So instead, I thread hope through the hours.
Stitch on a smile with the finest embroidery.
Turn my gaze to the shimmer,
not the seam.

And in this curated light,
everything still shines.

Even me.
Almost.

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