the anatomy of suffering
By Deanna Horton
Nobody knows what to do with sad people. I remember this mostly on Tuesdays
when my grandmother chews her tears, mopping grief
in the dry heat of a wet August.
Mostly when my mom kneels in front of me,
eyes heavy over my drowsy skin:
whatever it is. Take it out on me. Not yourself.
Nobody knows what to do with sad people. It's all I can think of as I burn into my mattress,
eating the hours for breakfast.
Tastes like sophomore year of highschool — sore throats
and the boy who tolerated me.
I just don't know what's gotten into you lately.
Nobody knows what to do with sad people. I say this only in places I've bled before
like the tub that drowned me four times a day and
arranged my lungs on the tile.
Nobody cares at fourteen because the first time you were a slut,
you were eleven.
It's been so many years.
Nobody knows what to do with sad people, so I throw this body out back and
beg for a new one.
Nobody knows what to do with sad people, so
I lug this hurt to the pharmacy and
follow the written rules.
Nobody knows what to do with sad people, so
I want a well-lit basement in the suburbs, wine red shutters, and
a million chances to get it right.