The trails of salt running down a rosy cheek,
They are a constant waterfall of blue,
Accepted by the world as weak,
But letting them pour is strong to you.

They are an endless fountain,
The key to the box kept within,
The result of a countless tiny battles,
The marks of breakage painted on porcelain skin.

They are a sign of defeat to most,
But in reality they are a war won,
They free you from insanity's grip,
A reverse to damage already done.