Sometimes I swallow it and it fights its way back up my throat, and I swallow again and again against the tightness.
I used to write it into a book, but I have become a more physical being of late.
Sometimes it mixes with rage and frustration. In those moments I wait until my baby is asleep and my man is at work and I hit my mattress with both arms as fast and hard as I can. I hide it in secret violence against soft, inanimate objects.
And it sneaks out in the dullness of my expressions, my face, my voice. That is when I am most sad, when I cannot sing. When I cannot be angry. When I cannot smile from my heart.
I guess I am not so good at hiding my sadness if someone is looking at me closely.
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Sometimes I swallow it and it fights its way back up my throat, and I swallow again and again against the tightness.
I used to write it into a book, but I have become a more physical being of late.
Sometimes it mixes with rage and frustration. In those moments I wait until my baby is asleep and my man is at work and I hit my mattress with both arms as fast and hard as I can. I hide it in secret violence against soft, inanimate objects.
And it sneaks out in the dullness of my expressions, my face, my voice. That is when I am most sad, when I cannot sing. When I cannot be angry. When I cannot smile from my heart.
I guess I am not so good at hiding my sadness if someone is looking at me closely.
I am not sad right now, but it comes and goes.
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