Some mornings I put on my cloak of Sadness,
it takes me awhile to realise I’m wearing it.
Some mornings I accidently put it on, other days I choose it.
It sneaks up on me, I can feel it tightening around me.
It’s too tight, but it’s worn in and it’s familiar.
Sometimes I feel perverse pleasure wearing my well-worn cloak,
the idea of shredding it seems foreign.
What do I wear instead?
It keeps me comfortably morose; It stops me from having to venture out.
It is an inside, isolating and invisible kind of cloak.
Some days I will go the whole day without realising it’s choking me, cutting off my circulation.
Some days I put other cloaks on top but the sweet familiar feel of the sadness seeps through and overrides the other ones.
I’ve had this cloak for most of my life,
it grows on me like a second skin if I don’t notice it;
Sometimes even if I do.
Some days the wind blows it away after a swift walk on the seashore;
But it’s only ever temporary.
I think I’ve lost it;
But there it is;
Hanging on my bedroom door.
Swept home in the howling winds;
Waiting for me.
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