What do you do with your sadness? Where do you keep it? In your belly, in a box under your bed, in your pain, in your anger, inside the sadness of another as you press against each other in the dark? Where do you put your suffering? In a photo album, in your mouth, in a journal, in a bottle, in a flame against your skin, in the urn on your mantle, hidden in your hustle and bustle? Where do you hide your lonely? In a nervous laugh, in the lump in your throat, in your empty sheets, in your rolling paper, in piles of stuff, in furious banter, in secret tears under the empty purple black of the night sky? Can you fold it like a transformer into something functional? Or utilize it like logs in a wood stove?
Tell me that this is worth it. Tell me that this is different, that even smart kids don’t make 98s anymore. Tell me that I should stick with medicine because I could be something great. Tell me that I’ll make new friends, real ones. Tell me that my family still values me even if they won’t acknowledge, let alone vote for, my rights. Tell me that the reason I feel so inadequate is that when I feel overwhelmed I start to hear the voices of my past telling me that I’m a fuck up and I feel that it’s true. Tell me that I’m only tired, not permanently broken. Tell me that I’m going to be okay. Tell me that happiness is possible. Tell me …..
This is why people find dogs / gods to believe in.