I’m not sad. Not really.
I’m actually radiating,
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.