how’s your sadness-prison coming along?
by meghan tennison

typical weather. always rotten shine.
you’re killing me under the playground. you’re killing me with those favourite people of yours
the ones who are so depressingly tasteless
and that is my confusion.

“you shouldn’t be so sad… make the best out of everything.”

i think that sadness is just a laziness product. it is gaseaus, streaming
out of a blackmarket aersol can,
kitten-clawing through the best parts of my head,
and then dripping down to the floors of my belly.

my eyes sit here listless, salting up their legs,
touching base with the iris and pretending to be cherry trees
till my exhales become big and manly
so that they wither because they’re just not supposed to
be this way.

maybe…
maybe i can touch base with exactly why you think that everybody else
besides me
are such highnesses?

i think i’m letting myself flow, i think i’m being myself,
but i’m just stressing
and all of what i see really is just “this”

but i guess i totally missed it
and this really sucks.