You aren’t sad you are possessed. 

your body a vessel frequented by a spirit mourning the strife of living a life that was maybe worth crying over.

Some ancient sufferer ravaging for food, an infant clinging to their back, dragging their sullen bodies by their fingernails toward a distant mirage of puddles ahead, despair spontaneously incited upon you by someone who found where time was tender & stretchable like a piece of gum, they’re wrapping you around their finger and will spit you out when you’ve gone stale.

You are equipment—a tool, a machine, a vehicle for grievance whether or not it belongs to you.

Some machines you can’t turn off because the remote is broken somewhere in a junkyard.  The function thriving but the controls outdated.

You have to go sorting through that junkyard before you rev out of control, 

before someone else finds the remote first, 

before your chaotic unrest grants them a profound sleep, and they swim to safety through tides of tears that are not even your own.