It’s not an easy job,

Cataloguing your tears.

Every salty crystal streak,

I map the paths they take.

Note their size and shape.

They run between the pores of your cheek,

Take the ridges of your soft lips.

I taste and check for sweetness.

 

I watch your shoulders round,

And body shudder.

Looking for detail.

Ribs and torso flex and spasm,

With each sighing breath.

I know your heart’s breaking rhythm.

 

Your head in your hands,

Hair crushed and tangled,

Spills from your fingers.

I measure.

Finger nails cut.

Sobs of disappointment muffled,

Moving.

It doesn’t get to me.

 

Sadness’ tide subsides, I see it.

Count the cigarette butts in the ashtray,

The bottles wounded on the floor.

Fists clench and arms ripple.

I notice the broken things.

You scare yourself,

Slump and resolve.

I document the eb and flow,

The fear and woe,

Each special type of loathing.

 

I take what I’ve seen and roll it up,

Hard as a rock, awkward and irregular.

I swallow it,

Choke it down, feed on it.

Then I write it.

 

It’s not an easy job,

But it comes naturally to me.

 

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