He said he likes that I can cry so easily.

That he sees it as a release.

Cathartic, even.

But all I’ve ever known from it is weakness.

Helplessness as a child.

Stuck in the room with purple walls and that popcorn ceiling.

I wrote poetry of my hearts pain,

And the wrinkles of past tears stained the pages.

It was a kind of numbness that follows the tears.

The one that makes me feel like a monster.

I cry with confrontations,

When I’m angry,

When someone else is sad,

And when I’m hurt.

And sure,

It can be cathartic.

But it hurts,

That pang in your chest when your heart and mind feel so full.

Overwhelmingly so.

Yet,

What would I do if tears didn’t come so easily to me?

How would I release my overflowing emotions?

I’ve learn to love my sensitivity.

It makes me who I am.

And I’m learning to love that too.