Tears

I used to cry about anything when I was younger. My tears were as easy as my smiles, as easy as bullying my little sister, much easier than words. Then I was bullied out of my tears and into rationality. So many binaries white men have constructed to make sure anyone other was also seen as inferior.

Now I cry as frequently as a blue moon. I cry when my control slips: when I am frustrated, when I tug at the depths of my feelings, when I am alone. Control is a mask I use to convince others that I am worthy of whatever they might give me, whether that is respect or love or anything else. If I lose control, I also lose my worth and my sense of self.

I have placed myself in an impossible position. Or maybe it was not me who placed myself here; I don't remember my childhood well enough to say for sure. Either way, I cannot control everything, and the more I try, the more I will hurt when it crashes down around me.

I do not have any more to say.