.x.X.x.

Pools of black tears
stained with mascara
and unnecessary eyeliner.

A drop glides down your face,
crashing into your nose,
another one dangling from your chin.

Your face,
covered in light crimson patches
marring your already blemished pale skin.

A deep frown
as you let out a wailing cry of despair
which kills my ears.

A smile might've made you look slightly presentable,
but you are distracted
and to busy blaming yourself.

Your skin is caked with dirt,
and you smell of fish and dirty laundry,
your face warped as you cry.

You clumsily trip over a chair
as you stumble to the restroom,
where the flushing toilets will drown out your pathetic sounds.

You're hardly what I'd call pretty,
with too much fake
and not enough natural,

yet today, for once,
you're too heartbroken to try,
and I can't help but find the sight beautiful.

Strong hands try to comfort you
but I interfere,
you should be left alone I say.

But I know my reasoning is far too kind,
you've momentarily stopped with the tears,
and I wish for the emotional side to return,

because for once you aren't pretending
and hiding under pounds of make up,
even if this sight isn't exactly pleasant.

So I make a harsh comment,
which I didn't mean,
but it works and the rivers start flowing again.

And perhaps it is cruel,
but what can I say?
Sorrow is your color.

.x.X.x.