we’re all OK.

have you ever just stared at strangers
making up stories about who they are
where they work
if they’re comfortable in their own skin?
i wonder draws me
to gaze forlornly
at another life
and i think, maybe ’cause i’m crazy
maybe it’s ’cause i feel disconnected
and invested all at the same time,
like one day i’ll share thanksgiving dinner with the people i see on the street
and wear grandmother’s pearls
as we drown the evening
and our shortcomings in wine.
like, we will never talk about the stains on our hands
but intuitively we get that we’re all a bunch of misfits
playing dress-up and pretending like we’ve got our shit together.
i feel like i owe it to these people
to give them another life
that i create in my head
just so they know there’s a small chance
at finding happiness in all the strangeness
the real world makes us feel–
a sense of not belonging
the unshakable notion we were born in the wrong era
or inadequacy.
that’s what i’m inspired by most
when i breathe new life into someone passing me on the street
or sitting next to me on the train.
i want them to know
they are, in my eyes, courageous with a hearty laugh
and pain doesn’t live deep in our bones
and we’re all OK.

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2 thoughts on “we’re all OK.

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