tragedy, I can't explain it.

you want words to matter.

you want veins to be open to nothing but new suggestions

and scissors to be softer than hands

but the world is bad at making sense, darling,

and we forget to leave our weapons at the door.

there's demons on the doorstep

and death in the mailbox

and tragedy on our test scores.

God only let's a certain number of bodies breathe at once,

and we were never allowed to determine the balance.

but tragedies don't start in caskets.

tragedies start in split decisions

and broken souls

and artificial smiles that cover up the evidence like a wreathe on the door.

tragedies start behind closed doors,

open doors

locked doors

creaking doors.

the tragedies start when doors open for demons

and close on hands.

new hands,

friendly hands,

God's hands.

you want words to matter.

you want the caskets to close and the hatchets to go with them.

you want smiles to be raw.

and you want to scream from 6 feet higher:

"the world is bad at making sense, darling,

when you're looking in the dark.

but hold out for an hour or two,

because the morning's never failed us yet."