Oh, she's crying again.

She stutters.
Because there are too many words to say.

She hick-ups.
Because the words were hard to swallow.

She heaves.
Because the pain is too much.

She wipes away her tears.
Because there is no handkerchief or tissue to offer.

She smiles.
Because she learned how to cry many times, before learning to hide.

She limps away.
Because a girl like her had tattoos, painted black and blue.

She comes the next day.
Because there is no other thing to do but expect the same thing.

She's bleeding.
Because writing with a red pen on her arm was a habit of hers before bed, and she loved painting her bed sheets and bathroom floor red.

She heals.
Because getting hurt makes your body do the same thing.

And she cries. Again. And again. And again.
Because it's the same thing all over again.

She stutters.
She hick-ups.
She heaves.
She wipes away her tears.
She smiles.
She limps away.
She comes the next day.
She's bleeding.
She heals.
And she cries again.

And she does the same thing.

She makes my heart weep.