My sadness.

I cannot make it go away.
I cannot pretend it isn’t screaming my name,
begging me to hold it and nurture it and make it feel safe.

It leaks out when I haven’t properly attended to the seal
and smells when I fail to twist the top closed,
secured with a twine tie.
I sense it coming. I busy myself.
An ounce leaks out. I drink a bottle.
I paint my toenails. I buy a book.

Avoidance.

Yet. There it is again.
My pain, my terror, my sadness
beckons to be cared for as a child
demands to be hugged, bandaged, set back on its feet.

And finally,
I break under its weight.
For some reason, in this moment, its heft is too much to bare.
So, I give in.
I let go.
I am sad.
I am sad as sad could possibly be.
All of the sadness that I have ever contained, ever trained,
ever held inside the shell that I have become
spills.

Crumble me to the cold tile floor,
back against the wall
head hung over in pure defeat,
knees up in my chest,
water beating down on my head
I wail because it is what I cannot contain.

My stomach shudders and begins to cramp
My eyes are so tightly clenched that
my lids begin to turn inside out
I am startled by the noises that escape my being,
howling with a pitch that only the screen door can utter.

Ache from the very core of who I am.
And then his words ring in my ears,
“Be one with the sadness.”

Is this what you mean?
This is what I sit and listen
and want to learn from you?

Fuck you.

Because it is going to devour me

My sadness.
This pain.

But somehow it is all that makes sense now.

So I sit.
Still.
In a heap on the floor
water running cold.

I sit.
As sadness.

 

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Assistant Ed: Jamie Khoo/Ed: Sara Crolick