Crying is not pretty.
It is not like in the movies
where tears spill down your cheeks
in perfect pearlescent lines.
It’s ugly and visceral: raw
emotion pouring from your eyes
in thick streams to stain sleeves.
It is when your sinuses clog up
and snot gushes out to coat
your upper lip in gooey layers.
It is when you breathe as deep
as the kiddie pool; no lifeguard on duty
and you start to sputter, inches down.

It is when you sob in the shower
so you can’t tell the difference
between your thoughts and your other filth.
It is when you press your face under the water
and try to hold your breath
until you can’t feel your lips.
It’s when you step onto the tile,
cold beneath your feet, wish that
your skull may unexpectedly come into
contact with the counter corner.
It’s when you’ve used up all your tears,
so you dry heave from your eyes
and fill your lungs with an urgency:
desperate to feel anything and nothing.

It is part of the healing process.
It is when you bury yourself
in a pool of soiled Kleenex
so that when you are done,
you can see all of your
feelings contained
in the boogers of your pile.