Literature
Not With Tears
I have never learned to cry.
Heavy storm clouds loom over the crimson horizon, lit by the dying sun. Gods withdrew, legends fell. My heart throbs like the body of a trapped bird, slipping out of life. Its beak bound, its wings clipped, its feet tangled in wire—while the water lies only a talon away.
I have never learned to cry.
I am only deserts: vast, dry, abandoned, breathing out centuries—yet unable to summon water. I do not even know what water is, nor how soothing it could be. I turn red, like bloodshot eyes, craving relief from an un‑slept nightmare.
I was raised among violence and loneliness. My heart beat in unison with the rising voices of my enemies. My flesh knew the taste of blood, which soon became intoxicating. My hands clutched only sheets and broken toys, forgotten by warmth and love.
I learned to catch fire.
I learned how to love, passion burning like a sea of wild flames.
But I never learned to cry.
… at least not with tears.
