I
Cannot cry on my own.
Sadness will pour through my pores but
My eyes stay dry which is why
I keep a list of songs,
3 pages long,
To which I pretend to relate,
To which I scream and let dry sobs ricochet
In my chest.
It's much like permission, because I've told myself--
I have been told
--That I am not sad.
That I do not cry, there is nothing to cry about.
Not the empty wounds in my soul, not the hole in my heart.
Compared to the rest, I don't have it too bad.
See I cannot cry on my own.
So I weep through another, and I know it hurts
The both of us
But without the outlet, I feel I might die so, so horribly.
And I've got to survive
To tell a story, my empty story, that will awe the rest.