(I think) Things are getting better.
For a while I stopped turning handles, pulling at threads.
For a while I let things slip into silence,
Liquid seeping through closed doors.
Sound that cannot be heard.

I stopped listening to those words that couldn’t be spoken and then instantly forgotten,
That couldn’t be written on paper and pushed behind wardrobes in empty rooms.
I didn’t know what else to do.

I had drawn things in pairs for so long, and it was hard to change the story this far in.

(I know now that) Things divide, and they go on and on.
By the time I realised, the pieces were too small to fit together.
The glue had long dried out.

See, it felt like you would speak of sadness as though it isn’t complicated.
Like it doesn’t burn holes in parts of the body that you can’t see.
Like it doesn’t hide away.

It got late and I was tired.

Lately, things are starting to make some sense,
The sadness is smaller, and I can fold it out and hold it.

‘Sometimes I miss you,
And sometimes I am ok.’

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