screams and cries so pretty

Trigger Warnings

I used to date a girl who told me I look pretty when I cry.
That had a strange impact on me.
It’s something that I carry with me.
Something that hurts to think about, and I’m not really sure why.
Like how a thunderstorm makes you want to hide, to wrap yourself up in blankets.
Though, it’s more difficult to protect yourself from the tears you shed.
A window-pane with no curtains, storm left exposed.
Blinded by a force that escapes my comprehension.
I cover my face when I cry now.
Hold it in my hands, press my palms into my closed eyes, until a violent sob escapes, and snot, tears, and spit explodes outwards, a projectile of congealed despair.
I’m not pretty when I cry anymore.
She wouldn’t know that.
She left after I became too despondent, and detached to even react to the apparent miscarriage of our child.
She came back for a moment, briefly, to tell me it wasn’t my dead child anyways.
She said it was a drug dealer’s, and that he had raped her, and that it was my fault because I wasn’t there for her, that it was my fault she needed to get high.
It was my fault, she told me.
I didn’t react, just more of tried to process that, but didn’t get far before she kissed me.
I felt nothing.
We were in a cemetery, I felt dead, and she wouldn’t stop kissing me.
She sunk her nails into my hips, and pulled me to the ground.
We fucked, there in the cemetery, which wasn’t as dark as when we took pills and cut eachother with razor blades.
She looked into my eyes with so much hatred, and I looked through hers with nothing at all.
We finished, I smoked a cigarette while she talked.
She asked me if I was going to say something.
I didn’t.
She walked away.
I cried.
In the cemetery.
I screamed and hit myself and cried so violently.
I don’t cry pretty anymore.
She wouldn’t know that.