the bathroom is my place of worship, my safe haven. the sheer magnitude of bad poetry my fingers have scribbled on the edges of old vulnerable notebooks under the damned sink never fails to make me feel out of place, oblong. this time, my breasts against my encircled knees, i think of why exactly happiness revolts me to the point of vomit. happiness and sadness are too simple. too simple to be human. they are animal concepts, alien even. there’s so much more to the world than just being happy. i loathe people who are happy, and just that. arctic monkeys echo off the bathroom walls and hot water trickles down the tips of my hair. sadness is not a disease. it is a person. a memory. food. feet and hands. everybody feels too much these days. but damn you all, sadness is not a feeling. sadness is tangible, visible. i now shut off the faucet and look at my hands. they are wrinkled raw with rebellion. my mother always said i was born seventy years old and i get younger each year. oh well, never mind.