I wonder if we get sad because we're already sad but we've been blocking it out.
Or because there's some kind of trigger, something that slights you, so you hang on to a more plausible reason to be sad.
To something that can tell you why you're falling apart from the inside out.
It starts off with a number. You begin writing about something, that shapes itself around something else. Your words do that because it knows you better than you, and you could've started writing about cat and dogs and squirrels and rabbits when actually all you wanted to talk about was that snail you passed on the pavement, on your way to the grocers', and how you didn't pick it up even though you always always pick up snails and put them back on the grass. And how, when you walked back the same way you'd found it was already dead. And how it made you stop and stare and not know what to do.
Then you're done with the poem and you look back and hardly know where it came from, even though, actually, honestly, some part of you does.
And you hate the honesty in it.
But you love the honesty in it.