When she cries, pain runs down her face like rainwater.  Her tears are part mascara, part salt water and part human suffering. 

When she cries, Mother Earth mocks her and paints the sky in blues and yellows.  It's never gray and cloudy when she cries.

When she cries, it makes him want to cry too because he doesn't know what to do.  He can never figure out whether to kiss her or hold her or shake her, so he sits helpless on the bed beside her.

When she cries, he never knows why.

When she cries, she hates herself for being weak and when she cries, it's in silence; her knuckles stuffed in-between her candy-apple lips to muffle her gasps.

When she cries, her shoulders quiver and her hands tremble and her eyes squeeze shut.  When she cries, she rolls up into a ball on the bedspread and waits for it stop.

When she cries, lies spill from her heart shaped mouth like truths and she rocks back and forth because it makes her feel better.

When she cries, she cries for her mother and her father and her old friends and herself and especially for him.

When she cries, she feels fallen from grace.  Broken and unfixable.

When she cries, it's because of everything she's ever done wrong.  For all the little white lies, for all the insolence, for all the cutting remarks she's ever made.

When she cries, her tear tracks make patterns down her face.  Triangles and circles and beautiful geometric patterns never seen before.

When she cries, she's useless and melted on the bed.  She cries and cries and cries for hours upon hours.

When she cries, she knows it will stop soon enough, but it never does.  Her life is just on big crying jag.