1 minute read
Sadness, I Guess
By Aithne Emmons
Sometimes, sadness wraps herself around me
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Her long smoky fingers grazing across my skin
Trailing down my spine and up my arms
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Sometimes she curls up inside me. Heavy.
Not a churning storm but quiet. Lonely.
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She burns me with a frigid ice
Slowing everything inside of me until there is nothing but her
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No room for a thought that she will not taint
No space for a fact that will not dissolve under her sentiment
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She steals it all and remains immaterial,
An aching chasm of nothing
I am alone.
