When I cry, I look into the mirror.
I resist the urge because it’s a vain thing to do, but I always give in. I feel my face warp to look more presentable. Pretty.

Red skin and blue eyes. I can look pretty when I cry. Be still.

If I was not pretty, what would I be?

I cried on the night of my seventeenth birthday.
Why should I feel such an aching in my chest?
It was a craving that silently consumed me.
I want to scream.
I want to scream and feel every emotion as thoroughly as my body can.
I want the grass and the trees and the apartment buildings around me to hear.
I want them to understand.
And maybe they will absorb it into themselves, store it in every blade and branch and brick
so that when another scream echoes through those city streets, it will not be as lonely as mine.