There is a child crying. The sound echoes his upset and I’m envious.
The boy throws his head back and howls like a wounded puppy. Sound pours from his wide open mouth, tears roll over his fat little cheeks and I wish I had the capacity to vent my pain like that.
I am a sad adult.
Emotionally constipated and unable to just cry when I hurt, I feel stuck.
This stupid inability feels like a coffin. I choke on my own suffering. I concrete it inside as skillfully as any mason.
The exterior of this monolith is pretty.
It is an architectural feat of curves and arcs. Decorated with silky girlskin, pillowy lips. This creation is a masterpiece of artifice.
Pretty to be sure.
Pleasurable of course.
in the economics of emotional expression however, absolutely fucking useless.
Other people never know. To them I am functional, my shit is together. I walk with my head up and my back straight. I walk with purpose and speak don’t fuck with me in my stride.
Dogs met on the street and bus know. They press their warm cheeks against my hips or calves, they look up and offer subtle canine comforts.
A cuddle. A nuzzle. Trust enough to sleep with belly and throat bared for rubbing. I hear them say it’s okay, I know.
I make myself tired.
I hope in my secret heart that if I live again I will be full and overflowing with tears.
Tears for laughter. Tears for joy. Tears of sorry and tears of rage. Tears when I come and tears when I can’t. I want to be a living salt water fountain.
Feel tears on my lips and discover the vision of the world through eyes filmed with salt water.
I hold the hope.