Feral Cry.

bitch, I am SAD.

This post was wholly inspired by an essay by the amazing writer, Nelle, called “SAD in the Summer.” I hope you’ll go read Nelle’s work.

//

Listen to this essay below:

//

There’s a feral cry resting on the back of my tongue.
Maybe resting is the wrong word.
It’s teetering,
waiting for me to unclench my jaw
long enough for it to spill out of me.

Despite knowing better,
I refuse to stop moving,
to acquiesce to my body’s call
to cleanse.
Maybe refuse is the wrong word.
I’m forced
to move at this pace,
to pretend time and responsibilities are real,
and that grief is not.

To be sad in the winter is the winter’s fault.
To be sad in the summer is a personal failing.
Maybe sad is the wrong word.
I am, in fact, griefstricken.
Grief made a home of me years ago.
We move through life in tandem now.
But because it’s summer I keep refusing to reach out my hand
and accept its invitation
to dance once more.

So I pick up my phone,
and schedule another hang.
This time a movie,
after dinner,
after a walk,
after the museum,
after - the joy I experience is real.
Maybe joy is the wrong word.
It’s a distraction.
Because it feels socially unacceptable
to ring my pals
and ask if they
would like to go lay in the garden
and share a cry.