Fiercely Clashing

I suppose I don't know who I am any more, lost it. All that I do know is that awful sensation brought upon by observing your happiness float out of you, my sadness leaking out of me too, and their coming right at each other. Your mouth is still as they collide, bustle and brawl right there in the middle of the room. I not only cannot meet you half way, but deeply resent your satisfaction and good humor. You ask why can't I just be okay (my counter accusation is more along the lines of sinking in hopeless despair). That contentment snaps at me, says you are just trying to get by, well that bitter mourning barks back telling that's the difference between you and I. Oh, it meant it. You share your good news, and I have never felt more disconnected.

I assure you that all I want is to be good, to you, and to myself, 
and I will be happy for you, 
even if you are happy.                                                                 I am ashamed of this stint of my life.