crying is hard

the anatomy of a breakdown, and the quiet after

crying is hard. 
the tears escape my eyes just fine, 
racing down my cheek in an almost cyclical manner. 

it's more the way my eyes sting with the acceptance of the sadness,
the obstinate headache that ensues after. 
it's the way the logic leaves my mind, 
the way my body shakes with every sniff, 
how my throat emulates a canyon swallowing stones. 

it's the taste of salt on my lips.
i swallow my own sorrow, 
bitter and endless,
spreading from body to mind.

the shower head becomes a confessional, 
steam rising like prayers I can't voice. 
water mixing with water, 
erasing the evidence 
but never the ache that blooms 
purple-dark behind my ribs.

I am a house during a storm, 
windows rattling, 
foundation shuddering 
while the roof holds—barely. 

somewhere a song plays 
and I am undone by violins, 
by sunlight splintering through car windshields,
by a stranger’s soft nod
that says, i see you,
drowning in broad daylight.

my chest caves inward like old paper, 
like something holy 
being folded smaller and smaller 
until it disappears completely. 

afterward, the quiet reverberates loud.
the aftershocks ring louder in my chest. 
sleep comes like forgiveness— 
slow, uncertain, 
but merciful enough 
to let me forget 
how small I am 
against the weight of feeling everything. 

crying is hard 
but maybe I am harder, 
maybe I am the storm and the shelter both, 
maybe these tears are how I water whatever grows 
in the hollow places inside me.