When sadness finds me at the end of night,
creep up my body 
like a lover who has forgotten the meaning of no.
I pick up a novel and forget my existence.

I dive into cascading cliffs.
Tales of women who
craked the shell of the world 
and found beauty.

When sadness lacerates my skin 
with its condescending words,
I read mystery novels about girls
who kill the things that make them fear.

I wrap myself in the warmth of delusions
let fairy tale men kiss away my bruises
and I tell them how good it is to be alive.

But stories end.
And once again I am greeted with the advances
of my unwanted visitor.