The truest sadness is when your lips part, and someone
you dislike greatly speaks
it is walking from room to room to hasten dawn
it is telling your father you hate him with oceans between you
and it hurts, to hear it, out loud
The truest sadness is that you’ll never be opened completely
be seen clearly or heard exactly
The truest sadness is knocking on the third door
sitting on the third chair
telling it the third time
for the distant crossed legs to say
they’ll see you again next week
Next week
you’ve studied your sadness; like you were told
your sadness has restraining human eyes
your sadness likes to brush your hair the way your mother did;
humming whilst unforgiving to knots.
