âMy sadness is quiet, she finds her way in to my breastbone and makes her home there. My sadness touches me the same way my lover does, these days, itâs gotten hard to separate one from the other and I know, he tells me he loves me but i dont feel loved. My sadness tells me Iâm not worth loving, but he says he does. How do I convince myself that anyone really does love me? My sadness crawls out of my breastbone and in to my throat sometimes. She makes me thick with tears, and itâs hard to talk when it feels like sheâs crushing my throat from the inside out. My sadness loves me like my lover does. She pets my hair and calls me a sweet thing. Or is it him that does it? I dont know. My sadness loves me at my lowest. She loves my tears and the crushing weight and the tightened rope around my heart. She calls me beautiful when I fall apart. She knows things my lover does not. Like how the skin peels off of my hands because I have been doing the dishes too much, because even if I canât cleanse my soul, I can wipe these dishes clean. Like how I baptise myself in the bath everyday, but how I call this a baptism, when itâs not, when its more like me, trying to drown me and my sadness. My sadness loves me with a belly full of hunger, but she loves me even more, when I feel like Iâm about to burst from all the food Iâve stuffed myself with. She loves me most like that, because she knows thatâs when I despise myself the most. I donât know what my sadness means to me, but I know what I mean to her, because she tells me so.â
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