I want to scream it sometimes:

can’t you see that I’m so unhappy?

But the heaving has become restless,

my desperation futile,

the tension of a nameless sadness that never fades

wrapped around my neck.

I siphon it from my friends,

happiness,

because I can’t find it in my home,

no,

that ship had sailed long ago.

And I wish for it on a new year like it’s a shooting star,

my soul a sacrificial offering to an act of nature,

an act of God,

some biblical mooring.

But I only go to church on Christmas Day and use up my prayers in an aeroplane;

is that why this sadness remains?

Chantelle Van Vuuren (she/her) grew up in Tāmaki Makaurau and daydreams about being a full-time writer in her law lectures. You can find her work in Circular and The Quick Brown Dog.