The House Where Sadness Lives

Sadness presses her cheek against the window sill of my heart, her tears tracing the veins of my crimson walls. She clings to me like a lost child reaching for her mother, desperate for an embrace that never fully arrives. I have become her refuge, a house where she lingers, feeding on the ache that hums beneath my ribs, rocked to sleep in the arms of longing. If only I could count the times she has curled into me, her presence both familiar and unrelenting.

I once thought that knowing her—welcoming her—would make her gentler, that each visit would hurt a little less. But she only presses deeper, peeling away the layers I built for shelter, stripping me bare, whispering truths I am too weary to fight. Lifetimes ago, she asked if I wanted to feel it all, and without hesitation, I said yes. And so here we are, tumbling together into the hollowed-out ache of not just my heart, but of this fragile, human existence.

Perhaps this is why she stays—not as punishment, but as proof. Proof that pain can be shared, that suffering is not mine alone, that in surrendering to this depth, I might carve a passage for others. By the grace of God, I will paint you a truer picture of life and death—not just with color, but with the weight of everything I have ever felt.