Crybaby

I cry all the time.

I cry when I’m happy, when I’m sad, when something is touching or brutal or leaves me with a fathomless ache.

I cry because I can’t imagine why anyone loves me. I cry because, regardless of that, they do. I cry from the reverence of being loved.

I cry for my child, for the beauty of his existence, the fear of his demise. I cry because I will not know him when he’s an old man. I cry because he will walk life without me one day; I cry because I had to walk so much of my own life without him.

I cry for my father, who I miss every day. I cry for my child self, who walked barefoot on eggshells and broken plates in fear of him. I cry because I cannot rectify the two together, I cannot make the equation balance, but it balances nonetheless in a wave of salt water and longing.

I cry for my mother, who loves so fiercely, but always with a distance. I cry from the loneliness of being the second daughter when one was always enough.

I cry for everyone I love, here and gone. I cry for lives washed away too soon, for lives I let curl away like morning mist. I cry for hands reached out, but never grabbed.

I cry because I hate myself, I cry because I could never really hate myself, I cry and cry and cry.

I cry at the beautiful, the ugly, the good and bad and all the in-between. I cry for the ordinary and extraordinary. I cry for this life, which is never enough and all too much.

I cry in frustration of not understanding why the tears are even falling, they just fall. I cry because my heart may feel like a clenched fist, but it is always too wide open. It catches everything, and everything is sharp.

I cry, and the well never runs dry. My life is an ocean of spent tears, born from nameless, eternal feeling. Pain and joy woven tight together, salted tapestry frail in watery light.