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highlyeccentricSadness always knew where to find me, though I kept on giving it false addresses, and moved house when it got too close. It discovered my silent number. Tired of its voice on the answering machine, I disconnected the phone.
I took to leaving lights off so sadness couldn't tell when I was at home. I didn't put music on. I moved around as little as possible in case it had sonar. I wasn't sure how it was tracking me.
It got so that it was hard to go out. I'd be standing in the supermarket choosing a brand of shampoo and sadness would touch my elbow. I'd realise in the cinema as the lights went down that sadness had the seat next to me.
Eventually I saved up and had my fingerprints removed and my race reconstructed by a plastic surgeon so sadness wouldn't recognise me, even if we bumped into each other on the street.
The day sadness saw me and new me in my new face and hands I realised it was going to take a heart transplant to shake this thing. The excitement of living like a get-away driver was beginning to pall.
I decided to reclaim my face, my actual address. I know that sadness will choose inconvenient times to visit, arriving as I'm getting dressed to go out, or at 2am, or while I'm watching my favourite show on TV.
But it doesn't unpack its suitcase all over my bedroom, or drink all the milk, or run up a three-figure phone bill calling long-distance, or expect to stay for months like an English backpacker.
And now I don't have to avert my gaze when sadness catches my eye, or block my ears when it knocks at the door. Now I say Is it you sadness? Come in, come in, it's been a while.
I took to leaving lights off so sadness couldn't tell when I was at home. I didn't put music on. I moved around as little as possible in case it had sonar. I wasn't sure how it was tracking me.
It got so that it was hard to go out. I'd be standing in the supermarket choosing a brand of shampoo and sadness would touch my elbow. I'd realise in the cinema as the lights went down that sadness had the seat next to me.
Eventually I saved up and had my fingerprints removed and my race reconstructed by a plastic surgeon so sadness wouldn't recognise me, even if we bumped into each other on the street.
The day sadness saw me and new me in my new face and hands I realised it was going to take a heart transplant to shake this thing. The excitement of living like a get-away driver was beginning to pall.
I decided to reclaim my face, my actual address. I know that sadness will choose inconvenient times to visit, arriving as I'm getting dressed to go out, or at 2am, or while I'm watching my favourite show on TV.
But it doesn't unpack its suitcase all over my bedroom, or drink all the milk, or run up a three-figure phone bill calling long-distance, or expect to stay for months like an English backpacker.
And now I don't have to avert my gaze when sadness catches my eye, or block my ears when it knocks at the door. Now I say Is it you sadness? Come in, come in, it's been a while.
From Out of the Box: Contemporary Australian Gay and Lesbian Poets