I Cried

I cried today, for the first time in months:
quiet tears, slipping unnoticed
into lines of leftover smiles.
I didn't try to stop the pain.

I did not heave, nor even
prostrate; just sat still and watched
the sunset warp, colors of brilliancy
mix with the dark of the mountains,
until my view passed into night,
dotted distantly with sparks
of sorrow.

I was calm, passionately hurting
against my will, on fire. Each tear would
cleave me, dropping on the ground,
splattering, soaking up as the blood
of the earth. I have not cried for so
long.

I thought about honor and propriety,
ideals, restraint; I started to walk slowly
making sure I touched the whole
of my foot against the dirt, feeling
quiet. So few tears in such a forever
time.

I wanted to question, show fight;
display what I knew I could be
but wouldn't be; roam in a false reality
of lust, deceit, and laughter: take
and take and take. Yet, somehow

I knew I loved
God greater than I wanted to
be loved by anyone, or heavier
than I wanted to hurt anyone,
and stronger than I wanted to
be independent.

So I wept, bolstering tears,
strangely silent still, and smiled,
driving their liquid path over
my lips and down my neck,
onto my chest,

then knelt and prayed to God.