Please don’t tell me
you know I’ll be fine.
Wishing isn’t knowing.
The journey is mine.
Words, though meant to console,
pierce my heart, dull my mind
while soothing the source’s
emotional bind.
I can’t know for sure
what others may feel.
Their calm may be earnest,
their confidence real.
My speech is halting.
My joking feels lame.
Emotions collide,
camouflage the brain.
Restless, unsure
and numbingly slow,
my thoughts drift along
with my old self in tow.
The healing takes time,
a new normal I’m told.
The new part makes sense.
When does normal take hold?
Wishing isn’t knowing.
The journey is mine.
Please don’t tell me
you know I’ll be fine.
