sydney Ortiz

Dried Roots

I’m not sad. Not really.

I’m actually radiating,

Pulsing, even.

Open and fresh like my mother just bathed me.

Every time I wash my hair

it is like bandaging the wound. It’s not sad–

I’m taking care of myself.

 

I feel like I can soar.

A sad person can’t soar, not really.

The words come, of course

But a sad person can’t speak them properly.

I care about the meaning.

I care about these deep silences that ring in my ears.

Little buzzing noises,

like the dishwasher. Clean and steamy.

I chip away at these things.

The sadness that is not really sadness

and water that constantly overflows.

When I close my eyes, it smells like colors.

I am not afraid to tell you the ways I ache and stay alive.

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