I wonder if I knew why I was crying, would answers open themselves up to me like heaven’s gates? I don’t imagine they will be pearly white or morally sane, but they will be answers all the same. Answers for why buried in my chest is a seed. The size of a plum or sometimes a peach. It is a seed of sadness that sprouts in the rain but also reaches out sapling hands to the sun. When it sprouts, my skin tingles like two bees are dancing across my collarbone, around each breast and below my sternum.
Today, there is much for me to do. I have used off milk in my coffee and decided to drink it anyway. Shoes breadcrumb the flat, as do pillows and clothes. I’m naked because I had a bath in this heat, in the hope I’d feel touched by more than just a ghost. Between each task – coffee and bath – I’ve retreated to the sheets. To water the seed in my chest; because maybe crying isn’t an end point but a process. Maybe the seed will blossom into happiness.
© Kristiana Reed 2018