It doesn't feel like sadness sometimes
It feels like a cloth pressed against a wound
The sticky rag molding into the shape of torn skin
The torn skin ripped ragged against the dirty grease stained cloth
It's always connected by thread
It's what keeps us together
But it's also the reason we come undone
Sometimes people press too deeply into what we are
As if we are the dirty sink water spilled across the floor
And they are the mop meant to soak us up and wring us out again
They are the rag
You are the wound
And every time they try to stop the bleeding
It's like they try to suffocate you
