“Series of Sadness”

Paige Welch, Contributing Writer

Part I

Being young

Thinking about being older

Forcing my being flung from the present,

The birth of an obsession with the future.

Now I am here at the future,

thinking about being older

But I’m scared this time.

I’m sprawling

Filling the volume of the container

I occupy and spilling out

Into the ones I shouldn’t.

Wish I could shrink

Back to a size where I could fit.

Be young again and tell myself

To quit dreaming about something else.

If I could have known

That I would leave no space for existing

I would have stood up and climbed

Out of my thought bubble and explored

Those frightening expanses

Before I stuffed them full of myself

Part II

I wish fear

Didn’t suck the nectar out of my veins

Leaving me to be a bag of blood

Among a pile of bones.

Life matter unanimated

Still casting a shadow along the long

Patches of grass up in the open valleys

Of places I have never been to;

Because I was unable to leave my bed

And be real

Part III

I said

That I was lonely.

He told me he was sorry

But never came around

To fill up some spaces.

It’s a lot

For me to expect

A person to be more

Than they are but I want him

To be the things I can’t be

For myself which is someone

Worth loving.

Part IV

Her fur was long and left

Black clumps all around the living room

Especially on the sofa,

Where she would watch the world

Without it watching her.

Her tumor was also black blending

With the fur but had a scent like

Winter death thatt fed on old bones.

Her brown eyes asked me to say

Why she was dying but I couldn’t:

I ran away to cry and ask why

It wasn’t me instead.

Once in a while I will find a dark wisp

Trapped under a table leg.

I feel her against my finger tips

Before I let her go.

Part V

I want to be alive

But I don’t want to feel it.

Have the roughness create friction

Mess up my skin

Dead skin cells falling like snow

Onto an invisible city

Draping it’s bones in an off gray

Sheet with the scent of living.

Slowly the shape morphs;

It becomes phantom.

The city, now seen,

Is in ruins.

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