Misery doesn’t know my name. Misery can’t tell me what color my eyes are. Misery knows your mistakes better than I do.
But no, I must be an innocent bystander standing in a crossfire of everyone else’s pain. This is just borrowed ache. No, this couldn’t possibly be me.
I couldn’t be wrapped in a chapel praying for my name’s sake. Humming a tune of forgotten stories cause the silence sings of the present that offers joy that I can’t bring myself to grip for fear that it finds its way into someone else’s lost and found.