The Semblance of a Sad Sap

Sadness was a uniform of sorts,

and I had gotten too used to it,

the casualty of a pity party is an addiction to it,

maybe it was an affinity for false wounds,

and I would like to think I had best laid plans,

because that would mean I had the best intentions,

ones that were waylaid by my flaws,

my diffidence,

my own hitches,

But I got to liking my sadness,

and I did not want it interrupted with the fixings you were offering,

I did not want to be stitched up with your smile,

did not want you to mend my fissures,

or my rings,

I just did not,

and there was no explanation for that,

none that I wanted to take the time to think of,

other than my love of solitude,

and that was enough for me