The Anatomy of Suffering | Deanna Horton

Nobody knows what to do with sad people. I remember this mostly on Tuesdays

When my grandmother chews her tears, mopping grief

In the dry heat of a wet August.

Mostly when my mom kneels in front of me,

Eyes heavy over my drowsy skin:

Deanna, whatever it is. Take it out on me. Not yourself.

Nobody knows what to do with sad people. It's all I can think of as I burn into my mattress,

Eating the hours for breakfast.

Tastes like sophomore year of highschool — sore throats

And the boy who tolerated me.

Deanna, I just don't know what's gotten into you lately.

Nobody knows what to do with sad people. I say this only in places I've bled before

Like the tub that drowned me four times a day and

Arranged my lungs on the tile.

Nobody cares at fourteen because the first time you were a slut,

You were eleven.

Deanna, it's been so many years.

Nobody knows what to do with sad people, so I throw this body out back and

Beg for a new one.

Nobody knows what to do with sad people, so

I lug this hurt to the pharmacy and

Follow the written rules.

Nobody knows what to do with sad people, so

I want a well-lit basement in the suburbs, wine red shutters, and

A million chances to get it right.

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Deanna Horton writes because it's the only way she knows how to live. Deanna is nineteen years old and pursuing a double major in psychology and English at the University of North Texas. You can find more of her work on Instagram, TikTok, and Substack by searching "deannadiary."