Sorrow pooled around her in sweet greens and warm blues.
Sheâd always dreamed that safety would come with bigger.
When she was taller and stronger she wouldnât have to be afraid.
Irony came with the acceptance that the largest part of her
was sorrow, and the way it lapped at her feet forgivingly like water.
 She spent a lot of time pretending that what was, wasnât really.
She remembered the summer her father made her mother cough up blood in the sink and her mother caught little baby seashell teeth in her shaking hands.
Perhaps that is why she always compared sadness to the ocean.
Perhaps, but probably not.
When she was fourteen she was put in a mental hospital for a semester.
She left school  in exchange for a little square white room where everything made sense. A nurse brought in the same medicine with the same small paper cup, to the same room, where she sat the same in a white camisole and linen pants.
The place could be frightening, indeed who could forget the time she discovered Charlie hanging in the girls shower. His body seemed very empty, and large. She remembered she sat in the shower with him for a while.
This was not part of the logic that made this place. After a while she remembered going and sitting by his corpse toes. His large toenail on his left foot was cracked and yellow, and she remembered wishing she had polish so she could fix him up.
After a bit of sitting beside his large cracked feet, a thick feeling settled in her chest. The sadness began to roll under her feet so that she rocked, and shook.
Eventually a nurses came in and a doctor shot something sweet in her side that made her drowsy, and when she awoke the next morning the nurse was there with the little paper cup and all was alright, only it wasnât.
It was the general belief that with time sheâd get better. The ghosts would stop dancing around in her mind, the night terrors would fade away, sheâd stop splicing open her wrists, or stop seeing man who dressed like a boy.
The problem with this belief that time would heal everything was she wasnât a bruise. She wasnât burgundy and blue, she wouldnât fade to spring greens or soft yellows as time passed.
Really, in all honesty time had nothing to do with her. She wasnât a clock, or a wound, she was a girl whoâd walked in on her mother hanging from the rafters, and no amount of time, space, distance, or polite nurses with paper cups would ever be able to change that.
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