Send me a yellow envelope filled with your tears.
It will be soggy, and sloppy, but that is how it should be,
like crying:
Messy, undignified, and reserved
for those who deserve to see it.

I love you
with bloodshot eyes and frizzy hair,
taking short, sharp breaths
while your nose starts to drip.
I love you
with no walls between us.
No makeup or small talk.

You can show me your fear
and I will cherish it,
like a shooting star I found in the pit of a peach.

You will teach me how to be soft
and I will stare, full of awe
at vulnerability.
At the the strength of admitting weakness,
and emptiness, and shame.

I will hold you
and bring you peppermint tea.

I will tell you about how I am afraid
of mirrors, and voicemails, and family dinners.

I will tell you about being afraid to pick a profile picture
and how close friends can hurt you gently but deeply.

I will tell you how laughter can cause tears
like a lamp casts shadow.

I will tell you about losing a father, almost losing a mother,
and constantly losing myself.

I will tell you how hard my shell is,
and how soft I am underneath.

How I cry reading paperback novels.
How I love rom-coms and
how there is a girl who fills my belly
with butterflies when she kisses me.

Share your weakness
and I will share mine.
You are so brave
with your tear-stained cheeks.
Teach me how you cry.