Prose on my face

I laugh through my beatings. Or moan and subsequently come.

Not cry. (Unless it’s a punishment, which it never is because… you know).

My tears spent the day just beneath that very thin, translucent veil I call “armor.” You’d think the beating(s) would have been enough to draw them out, but that’s not what did it. That’s never what does it.

It was the silence after. When I was alone in the room and all the noise was gone. Not just the noise in the room, but also the noise in my head. The stuff that blocks me from getting to the source of the emotional pain.

The beatings help to stifle the excess noise and I can pinpoint the real hurty thing.

In the silence after, alone in the room, I figured it out.

And when I finally acknowledged it to myself, the tears came out. Of course, that happened when nobody was watching and I let it.

It’s not that I’m afraid to cry in front of people. I’m not afraid of much. It’s that I don’t like to make them feel responsible for my tears. Not responsible as in they caused them, but responsible to “fix” them.

My tears don’t need to be fixed. Like the feelings that cause them, they need to be released into the atmosphere so they can evaporate. Like any blog I post here, it’s catharsis. A way to let out what’s on the inside so it doesn’t weigh me down.

Crying is the way my tears write prose on my face. You don’t really know what’s really going on under the surface until I hit submit.