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.
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Thank you for writing this. This line struck me, “crying is hard
but maybe I am harder,
maybe I am the storm and the shelter both”
so beautifully written 💛