scratches

I am sad. Upset like spilled wine on white, 

like a stomach doing laps. Sad 

like an old lady left standing on a tram, 

sad like a child with a sweet smile 

who will never learn to use it. 

Sad like an empty shell, like the people 

who die alone. I am sad like 

Sarah Kane and my mother 

at their darkest thoughts. 

I write poems that astound people 

but it's nothing to celebrate because I have only 

ever done that when I felt the way I do. Undressed 

and naked from the happiness I genuinely feel,

left staring at whatever is left over. 

And everybody else is staring at it too, 

unsure of what to do with it, 

like a fish out of water flapping in their palms. 

Everybody knows, and I still 

don't know why I am typing laughter 

at every sentences in conversations 

- like it makes a difference.

I am sad because I have no reason to be. 

I am sad and I feel like I am imposing it, 

and I feel guilty because of this, 

so I get even more upset.

So I remain sad. 

Sad like the way he looks at me 

like I have shadows in my eyes, like the way 

they try to place a contagious smile back on 

my lips because my mind is

overworked and out on display. I am sad because 

I do not know when little things like buses and 

light banter and the lack of skins 

for my tobacco started getting to me and I

don't know which junction to take myself away from this. 

Sad because I don't know when the left overs of myself

began to matter more than my entire being.

Down like a basement tenants 

never use, like the bottom of a mountain,

the centre of a cave. 

It is obvious. 

What isn't obvious, is that 

I am happy. Despite all that, I am happy 

like the sun, like the father 

and son having lunch together, like

stumbling upon a sentiment you once 

thought you'd lost. Happy because 

I have somebody to wake up to, to

love and to comfort. Happy because I can 

still feel like I am alive. Happy because 

I am alive.

My mind is at its darkest but 

my soul is still light - where do I go from here?