that's kelvin. 27.3 minutes of silence on a park bench. following the same conversation that ends with you're changing. when did i smoke? i always ******* lie.
and sadness is not the forest but the axe. it isn't your locked door but the stairs or the hallway. sadness is the butterfly and the windshield colliding and telling yourself that you didn't see it hit or hear it quietly thumping. it is not sorry feeling, it is guilt. sadness is the building and the wrecking ball and sometimes i'm both. it is my cold nose and toes, but i am not a blade of grass or a river, i am the dinner that gave you poison rather than another notch on your belt. sadness is not black and white, it is a monotonous topaz. sadness is 7:30 after 27.3 minutes in which flies were more alive than i was. 27.3 minutes of disappointment, of don't touch me, of i can't see every sporadic, insignificant thing is making me want to holler and tear out my hair. and withdraw into myself but 27.3 minutes of silence does not allow for this. instead i became a blinking statue and the color turned from a yellow to a green and suddenly i was being reached for, but the hands were moving half in slow motion and half in apathy. i don't think i wanted to be rescued. i'm not a ******* damsel, or at least that's what i thought i was telling everyone. i can't think through that feeling this feeling. like 3am when all your friends are high and you're not. like 3am when you remember you tried to give a ******* in the woods while your phone was ringing because you haven't shaved and they tell you they're disgusted. and keep talking about it as if they didn't know you were talking about it.