"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.