The Weeping Sculpture
I live in such a strange world.
Glass eyes in my sockets -- starry nights reflecting on black beads.
Tears are a private map, a secret one folds and tucks away; a sign of breaking.
But I scatter mine for everyone to see.
I commend myself for strength like a soldier who stood through a dark, hopeless war.
Tears are swallowed by pillows at night, breathed out like a thick cloud that chokes.
“I write like a soulful kindergartener.” The words came from her bitten lips, a simple confessional. She said it proudly, overlooking the tears that sprouted and stalled her voice.
She looked at herself in the little black screen -- eyes big, a little swollen.
No one ever felt pain when she cried; to them her tears were beautiful.
Expressive. Soulful. Admired.
She became a portrait people passed and lingered by, careful not to disturb the crying thing.
It was a spectacle: her cries, a burden or amusement, a beauty to watch.
Never human. So human and yet made strange to others.
Not for hugging -- too far to reach.
A fragile glass woman, sculpted by her own haunting grace.
