Suffering

I wish my suffering was more poetic— that I could describe it with teardrops and bloodstains and you could still see the light through the blinds. Suffering is dark and cold. You told me to use my blood as paint but it stained the floor. I tried but my tears could not wash them away. I clawed at the walls and begged for answers because you’d never be there for me now. The light switches no longer work and your walls are covered in scuff-marks. It was dark and you were gone and it was so beautiful. A man walked his dog and the dog barked and I shivered because you turned off the heater and the windows were broken. Insects eat at the corners. I wish it was more beautiful. Snow gathered on the ledges and I wished I could see the beauty. My blood painted the walls the most beautiful shade of red and my tears gathered into a puddle. Suffering is never poetic. It is ugly and cold and you abandoned me. There was no blood. There were tears but they did not stain. You’ve left no physical mark on my earth. It could have been beautiful. My earth could have been yours. A planet composed of teeth and knives has more appeal than dirt and despair. I heard the man talk to his dog outside my broken windows and the breeze made my teeth cold. I wondered whether he would abandon his dog if given the chance. The snow grew thicker just as my blood. I wished I could shovel my tears and clear the sidewalks with my suffering. I wished I could write this and it could mean something.

— Olivia Dodge