Does it break my heart, of course, every moment of every day,
into more pieces than my heart was made of.
I never thought of myself as quiet, much less silent.
I never thought about things at all. Everything changed.
The distance that has wedged itself between me and my happiness
isn't the world, it isn't the bombs and burning buildings.
It is me, my thinking, the cancer of never letting go.
What did thinking ever do for me,
to what great place did thinking ever bring me?
I think and think and think.
I've thought myself out of happiness one million times,
but never once into it.