Tears under lamplight, so often called silver.
as if you think they're precious, or beautiful.
As if my pain makes me special, or radiant.
As if this is something rare, like it doesn't happen so often.
You think my tears make me unique, like no one else has ever been
Radiant in quicksilver, and no one else's shoulders have trembled
Under the burden of these sharp reflections of light
that adorn my face.
like the fluid sparkle of my eyes in this moment
is unprecedented and will not be repeated
thousands of millions of times over
so many people, so many faces.
So much glistening pain.

But this is not the first time
And it is far from the last
for me, or any of the others.
My tears are not silver, they are not precious.
They are not beautiful.
My blood has turned to water
and life has whipped me in the face
until I have overflowed and I bleed,
staining everything with the liquid pain
pouring out of the tracks cut through my trembling flesh.
You are so close to the truth
     (If I heated silver, if I stuck it to my cheeks
      if I watched the flesh burn and embraced the pain
      everyone who cared to look would see and the marks
      would not fade for a long time
      or ever.)
But so far from it
     (If I heated silver, if I melded it to my face
      if I adorned myself in refractions of glory
      I might be able to walk with pride.
      Everyone could see me, resplendent
      and I would embody strength
      and not hatred of my own weakness.)