It's not that deep

it’s not that deep

you tell your classmates when they point out your sour mood. but it is that deep. the kind of gut wrenching deep that you feel when your parents said, “We need to talk.” the kind of dizzying deep you felt when your mom, tears and snot streaming down her throat, couldn't choke the words out so your dad, stoic, spat it out: “Your sister’s boyfriend crashed the subaru. He was drunk.” the kind of deep dark circles under their eyes. the kind of deep silence and all at once you know she’s gone. the kind of deep that you feel when you need therapy but your parents can’t afford it so you hold the tears in, but, like vomit, they find their way out in the middle of the night. “How did you manage to get it on the pillow, comforter, and the carpet?”