When I am sad

by Natalie Robin

everything inside me between my neck and my hips plummets straight down into the cradle of my belly to sit and slosh and make me sick depending on how fast or slow I run. Yesterday, after incessant banter and fuck yous, the rage of near-apocalyptic hormones, a bloody canine bite, a bad haircut, and too much eating, I could not write anything and didn’t.

AND I WANT TO SAY ELEGANT THINGS. When I write, I want to be able to subjugate the conditions of madness, and anyone knows, most know, that in the thick of confrontation, with any wet, slobbering, circumstantial beast that exists only to be fed and to grow over your shoulder on any given day, it is hard to say what you mean without sounding like a preteen.

I want to be able to take that beast and both capture + condemn its soul to a feather. I want all the bad things in life to sound like a feather.

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