It smells weird in here, she hears her say, I can’t figure it out. Her eyes move around the room, curiously seeking out Something to explain the riddle. All day she felt the sadness creeping Through the pores of penetrable skin. Bleakness oozing from the previous night. She could taste it on the pillow. Desolate, dejected, desperate— yearning for acceptance,
She clung to the melancholy device. The sun shines through the cloudy glass window in the kitchen. She sips green tea in silence, avoiding eye contact. If only she could satisfy their request for compliance. If only she would be the radiant illusion they wanted. If only she could feel— no, live— differently. If only, she contemplated, she was enough to please— herself. She knows what the smell is-- But she does not wish to explain it. Reluctantly, she succumbs to the inquisition. It smells like depression, she softly answers. Comments are closed.
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Editorial Staff
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