jar of joy

there's a jar on my nightstand;

it used to be my grandmother's

but i recycled her memory 

into a pandora's box full of happiness.

the slips of paper are periwinkle

with dark purple penned messily,

almost disappears in my wall of twilight;

words written like they're in invisible ink.

i'm supposed to write a good thing

that happened on the day i write them (every day);

but i have to search through clouds for those moments

of complete joy, with even a slight smile on my lips.

and what happens when a lie is documented

and the jar is just filled with empty space

and the paper crumbles from streaks of tears?

it doesn't matter—

it'll be broken by the end of the year.