happiness is nothing more than a short vacation,
because sadness is the anguishing scent that has become accustomed to lingering in my home,

i confess that i am far too weak of a woman to clean it out, 

in my youth, i got on my knees and scrubbed and wiped and polished,

but the uninvited visitor remained, 

almost mocking me for my useless efforts, 

i took my gloves off once because i grew so angry with its obnoxiousness for staying there,

they became stained red, 

i didn’t mind.

i could relieve my precious home of this dreadful mess if i tried hard enough,

but then they all asked why my hands were the color of rubies,

they remembered the previous time the smell had arrived and asked if i had let it come to this again in a disappointed tone, 

the blood from that is stained on the blades hidden in my pencil case from elementary school

they remembered the boy i was speaking to and asked if i was still pure,

the blood leaking from my legs is still soaked within the tiles of the bathroom in my memory

i quickly put them back on,

the stains didn’t go away,

but their questions did. 

despite everything,
the smell still remained,

it had gotten worse,

it was decaying, 



my house was not a home i wanted to be in, 

my gloves were becoming marinating in scarlet,

my shoes beginning to change hue,

i began to think,

what if my home is not the victim this smell is in search of,

what if i am the one in need of cleansing?

i couldn’t let my friends and family be near me,

i was ashamed and hoped they would never know the truth:

that the smell was somewhere deep within me, 

a place that could never be properly scrubbed and wiped and polished, 

so i left,

and now i see the only choice to solve this mess,

is to bury my own body, 

to keep this smell away from you. 

but maybe, 

this could be my eternal vacation.

--Gabrielle Y., Adult