Tears weren't enough of a release for me.
They told me to cry, to get it out,
that it would heal me, but it only worsened
the state of melancholy I had found myself
to be drowning in.

A state that I had thought I wouldn't reach
once more, but that revelation had
soon shifted into a paradoxical
entity of truth.

Tears were simply an expression of
what I couldn't hold back.
They were droplets of guilt,
embarrassment, and inadequacy.
They were my tears, and I had felt
them trickle down my reddened and
sensitive flesh; they felt like home.

They were my physical rationale
for pain; a liquid that only
made an appearance when I
was weak enough to let it fall.

Pain was normal, but not this type of pain.
This pain was desolation.
It was alienation.
It was abandonment.
It was forlorn.
It was tenebrous,
and it was mine to bare.

It was on full display just as the
crucifixion of my emotions were.
The nails tore into the soft
rivets of my trust,
the wood planked against
my frame of my affection,
and the crown of thorns twisted
and entrapped my head of
kindness and docility.