to cry

everything makes tears, because i bleed.
(no, not depression, not tiny lines
of red on my arms – just a woman
disposing of unused cells, how it is.)
curl in on myself, imagine a life where
other people are happy, holding each
other in their sleep, creating babies,
their hearts beating soft in love, but
i am content to be here alone. quiet.
crying. grateful tears and upset; mostly
overwhelmed with possibilities of
the future, for myself, for these others,
and i am never quite sure when it is
simple hormones gone awry, and when
it is just who i am, sensitive, and unsure.