How very sorry I am for what you have lived with. You and I have not spent much time together. I avoid you because I despise crying. You avoid me because we are not supposed to cry.
So other than objectives, we have not known much about one another. Sure, I've squeezed out a few tears here and there; but a sob? Not really. And those times that I have needed to cry, you stood by and fought a deluge at much cost to yourself.
Over the past few days I have cried. And when I say cry, I mean real and bitter tears. Tears stockpiled over years of pain. Tears we both did not believe to exist. As this happened I watched you through my blurry eyes, shaking in a corner. You were waiting for him and he did not come. We were both surprised.
No one hit us until we stopped crying. No one fucked us until there were no more tears to cry. Not once was the blood running faster than the tears. In fact, there was no blood at all.
Each tear, it did hurt. Like crying razor blades. But it was a healing kind of hurt. To borrow a thought... it hurts a lot less to rip a band-aid off quickly than slowly. Or not at all. So I sit in my car and cry while I peel the neglected, crusty bandages of abuse away. I do this while I worry about keeping you safe. It's a role reversal of sorts.
Watching you with intent, I see that you are small. You are a skinny boy younger than my own daughter. She's six. And now I am not seeing you through the haze of my own pain. Without the need to dodge his fists, I see that you have glasses and blonde hair. Your glasses are broken and behind the cracks you have no eyes. No eyes that cry no tears.
I can cry your tears now. And it's OK if you never shed one of your own; that is not your job. It's mine now and you know, tears are not that bad.
And neither are you. So go and rest.
Hanging On No More
19 hours ago