kathysaurus is not the last dinosaur

Somewhere along the way, I thought my sadness meant something. 

It would happen whenever I rode above ground on the J train from Manhattan into Brooklyn—something about seeing the tiny lights with all the people I didn’t know inside them, something about knowing how cold it would be once I stepped outside. It GOT to me, man! It would happen again whenever my lips would stain red from too much wine and my feet would go underneath my legs and I would put my head in my hands. Or whenever the water in my shower hit my head a certain way, down my eyes and into my mouth and out I would spit it. Or when I would hold a book I finished. Or look out the window. Frustration. Eyes squeezed shut. A lonely feeling gripped me like a hug from a relative I’ve seen only at weddings and funerals. I went out with friends and never knew what to say, because you couldn’t say you were in a tunnel that lead to no light. A girl who really knows how to laugh on the outside, wear her eyeliner on the outside, crack gracefully.