Big tears,
for a small, small girl.
Dripping and dropping down
soaking my shirt.

Big tears,
the accumulation of the last few months
that I’ve succeeded in not thinking about—
until now.

And now, there are big tears,
crashing heavily against my chin.
Sliding past my shirt,
encountering my knee.

Tears don’t hurt,
but my ego does,
for letting them out.
The most excruciating months of my life—
and I survived, somehow.

And for the first time I truly wanted
to come out alive and breathe out.
And for the first time
it was hard to keep that vow.

When I wanted to die,
It didn't hurt this bad.
When I wanted to die,
I ate to numb the anxiety,
and then the double of that.

Now I don’t want to die,
but you sure tried to make it so.
And I couldn’t eat
for a week, maybe more.

I’ve spent my life trying to lose twenty pounds—
"About over six months I guess, I'm not so sure".
And in one week
I've lost so much more.

I’ve never felt like this—
like just a corpse.
No reason,
no will,
thinking, “I want to live. I want to move on.”
But there was no beat,
no pulse—
just tears,
because you were gone.
But why?
Why, when you were gone,
suddenly so was I?

And now I’m left with beer,
and such big tears.
They don’t hurt,
but it sure makes hard to breathe.