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.