One hand seems to grasp more tightly, the other’s knuckles contorted reluctantly, uncomfortably so. They have often become one and the same, because we live in a world that is oh-so-scared of being sad and of dominant, freely raging emotion.
Pages worn, well-loved, and laden with steam, their feel comparable to the texture of leaves in late September. It offers you a fleeting moment in which you understand your sadness. But there is always someone who will point out that her poems—like you—are self-indulgent. The book goes back on the shelf.