She carries around this specific kind of sadness
It stings her eyes with the smoke from the wildfire burning holes in her perfect appearance
It is heavy; the weight resting on her shoulders holding her down as she plants her feet to the ground and pushes with all her might
She calls it a backpack that she carries her emotions in
I call it depression holding them hostage
One night, when the pressure from the tightening straps wouldn't let go as she struggled for breath, I asked her why she didn't remove the restraints and undo the zipper; she said with tears in her eyes;
"It has been screwed shut, the one with the proper tools lives 1800 miles away, and has probably given up on removing them by now."
