There are days she hates the sadness.
Days it creeps under eyelids, unaware of its presence
until morning alarms scream
and eyelids are stuck shut, hurting to open, hurting to see.
Days when it claws,
talons deep into muscles and tendons and bones,
nesting in her brain and snipping neurons
so smiles touch lips, never eyes.
It is clinical. It is deep.
It is unpredictable,
But there are days,
entire days, when she loves the sadness.
Days when words electrify her tongue and burst
into song. Days her eyes shine, and love,
and see everything in vibrant living color.
On these days she celebrates the sadness,
twirling it around her head, throwing it into the air,
popping into confetti, trapping in hair, gathering at feet.
She revels the world of echoed, embracing laughter.
Each day is new. Each day is alive.
Some days hurt. Most do not.
The days now dance, and she dances with them,
always thanking sadness
for allowing her to feel joy.
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