caustic.

It's a natural compulsion - fearing Pain, that is.  We scurry about, attending to our lives.  Always with cautious eyes, wary of predators.

We fear it - Pain, that is - but Sadness is the real demon.

Pain burrows deep into the chest, hissing and malicious, lashing at the throbbing cavity walls.  But you last because you know it will tire and desert, as Pain is fickle and faithless. It will have its fill and abandon, leaving you raw and bare.

And then the Sadness steals through a tear and beds in the hollow under the collarbone.  Slowly it floods, dense and devoted, until your blood sits heavily in your veins and your bone decays and your battered body collapses under the weight because it just. can't. take. it.


That's what's so savage about Sadness, is its hushed and caustic patience.