"Some Days I Want to Sit in My Sadness
Like a Parked Car" by Kendall A. Bell

(after Emilia Phillips)

Some days, I want to sit in my sadness

like a parked car, idling in front of

the nondescript ranch that, on most 

days, will keep my body inside of it,

pushed into a corner like the crappy

prizes at the bottom of an old, cardboard

Cracker Jack box. Some days, I want the

sadness to consume me, to keep me from

the inevitable letdown after a temporary

high. The sadness knows every corner of

this crumbling structure. It knows when

to whisper its choruses, like the saddest

songs that I love—I don't need you anyway,

I don't need you, go home—or—I think I used

to have a purpose, but then again, that might

have been a dream. The sadness follows me

from room to room, like my dog looking for

food, for attention, watching to make sure

that my mouth does not make the slightest

upturn. I watch it swallow the rest of the

day from my window, listen for the sounds 

of people closing car doors, racing from 

the mundane to envelop themselves in bright

lights and distractions. I will stay shackled

with sadness, sharing sweet wine straight from

the bottle, watching blur become black.