You say the rain is beautiful, yet you judge me for crying.
If I went to school with you, chances are you've probably seen me cry (and I cry a lot).
I would like to thank those who consoled me during my epoch of sadness, one that reached out before me like bubblegum stretched to ligaments between nervous fingers (I don't chew gum often, but those fingers belonged to me).
Your kindness. is remembered warmly.
But to those of you who criticized me incessantly. Called me cry baby. overdramatic. weak. behind my back;
to those of you who deliberately concealed the truth from me-- unfortunate truths, they were but truths that concerned my reputation, nonetheless-- because you felt the need to spare yourselves from the "discomfort" and "annoyance" my tears would bring you;
to those of you who labelled me as if I were a cardboard delivery box containing fine china-- FRAGILE, HANDLE WITH CARE
(REFRAIN FROM HONESTY):
your remarkable lack of compassion serves you no purpose. There is nothing noble about making a satire of other people's sorrow. Being a stoic does not make you stronger than me.
You cannot possibly comprehend the strength I carry:
Many times I have shattered and many times-- every time-- I have put myself back together again.
I conquer the Olympus of jigsaw pieces that my heart has crumbled to, place each fragment of myself between my teeth, letting the cardboard and paint melt against my tongue like Listerine breath strips.
Despite the bitter aftertaste of broken, I feast until I am whole again.
I lick my wounds.
And then I heal--
I always heal.
And my dreaded stoics, you could heal too if it weren't for your self-righteous denial of the deluge.
Watch me drink from its waters, toast in acknowledgement to the pain.
I let myself feel as I am meant to feel.
I let myself break as I am meant to break.
I hope one day you come to learn that there is nothing braver than that.
Whenever I shatter, the Gods scream "Opa!" in celebration.
Because they know very well that broken I shall not remain.
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