How beautiful do I look when I cry?
First, my throat is choked, I've deliberately clogged it from bursting and ruining the work I do.
Tears well up in my eyes, and I tell myself to stop it, I don't look as strong as everyone thinks I am.
Keep it in, pent it up.
Then, with a sudden jerk, my body convulses, I'm unable to stop myself, and I start to cry.
My eyebrows collide like tectonic plates, creating deep fault lines on my forehead.
The first tear trickles down my cheek, creating a furrow in the shape of a seismograph.
I have a runny nose, so the mucous mixes with my salty tears, and comes down to my chin.
My face is all red, and tear-stained, my nose is like that of Rudolph, and my ears blaze a crimson shade.
I try to open my dry lips to explain this outburst, but saliva flows down on the salty mucous, instead.
I look gross, complicated, gooey and wet.
I don't like it, so I wipe all the wet goo on your T-shirt, and you laugh one of those gentle, silly laughs, telling me to stop crying.
I'm cross. Yet, I laugh like a coddiwompling traveller, although the flood hasn't yet ceased.
You make me laugh again, when you taste one of my raindrop like tears, and remark, "Ooh! Quite salty!"
The earthquake of my eyebrows, the landslide of my tears, and the storm of my mucous and saliva has been calmed.
The few blemishes on my face don't exist anymore.
The saltwater has made my face glisten.
Funny person, your T-shirt is all snotty and wet, but I stay on your shoulder anyway.
Quiet.
You tell me to never cry alone, and joke about me breaking my head slipping on that mucous-saliva-tear mixture.
I laugh again.
Absorbent cotton T-shirts and warm hugs are nice, after all.
I smile.
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Ramona Singh
P.S. This is my first paragraph poem. Tell me how you like it.
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