“I get sad sometimes.”
I don’t know how else to say it. Depression skips like a record in my mouth. Landing us back in the middle of a phrase now lacking in context. Made into fragment.
He didn’t know what to do with my words. He thought he already knew me. My vulnerability offered so easily from the beginning. Willingly placed between us in every exchange. Asking, join me.
But not this. This is a piece of me I don’t know how to share. I’m afraid to say it out loud because it might take shape as if summoned. Because it stands in contrast to the parts of me that are alive. But I forget that sadness lives too. That to know me is also to know that part of me.
I don’t remember what he said. Or whether he was happy to know me now. In this way. Marked by a heaviness I can’t quite explain or anticipate. I do know that he didn’t leave. Not then. Not because of that.
I get sad sometimes. The kind that feels a little like love. No. That’s not right. It just lives in the same place. Threading out across my chest. Pushing up into my throat. Tears rising from the pressure.
I get sad and then I wait. For it to break. Air filling my lungs. Sun touching my skin that doesn’t require work to feel. Like sensation has to move through the breadth of my sadness. My nerves made thick and slow.
To know this is to know me. Or to know more of me. The part that feels unsharable.
What could someone possibly want with my sadness?
As if it can be held by anyone but myself. But then again, holding doesn’t always mean to carry or to bear. Sometimes it is the possibility of a hand stretching out, waiting patiently for whenever you’re ready to hold on.