(no subject)

There is a kind of sadness that lives inside me
A tight, choking, painful sadness
Hungry and hollow and needy and desperate
That has no name

My heart is sheathed in iron bands forged too small
My throat is sewn tightly and held closed
So that nothing may escape
Except the tears that leak unwanted from my eyes
And sometimes, if I am alone,
A low wild keening sound that slips past me

I do not know the face of this sadness
For it hides itself -- shame, perhaps, or secrecy
I do not know the name of this sadness
For it does not introduce itself -- it is just here

It might be grief
For things that were but are no more
Or things that never were or cannot be
It might be anger
Towards the world, the universe,
Or myself
It might be loneliness
For the isolation enforced by depression and disability
It might be pain
Too sharp for words or thoughts
Too primitive to be explained

It does not tell me, and it does not let me go
It will not be ignored
It can only be embraced as part of me
And endured

And perhaps
Since it is within me
Perhaps
Loved