best kept secret

(moved this from my tumblr)

Nobody really knows about the secret kind of cry i have.
It’s not the gentle kind I can hide with a stone face as tears stream down my cheeks like rain on a warm window.
It’s not the kind of cry that satisfies my heart when I’m met with indescribable beauty. 
It’s not a cry i let loose when i’m sad, or hurt, or even angry. 
I never cry for any of those. 
It’s not the kind i can laugh about and convince the world is irrelevant.

It’s the kind that’s been held up inside of me for a while that i refuse to look at, like a monster that ceases to exist if i close my eyes. 
It’s the kind of cry i cry when i’ve lost something beautiful forever. It’s what happens when i mourn the past.
It’s the cry for things that cannot and will not ever change, and something precious is lost because of them.
It’s the kind that will go unacknowledged for months, because apathy has kept it in check deep down in a well which i never dare to peek down into.

Recently, i’ve visited that well a few times, peering into it and contemplating who i am and was and should be.

I didn’t know it at the time, but every stolen visit to the thoughts that make me care would diminish my wall of numbness, brick by brick.

Tonight, when i was all alone, and the world was quiet enough for me to grow restless, i visited the well again. And this time i wasn’t alone. He was there. As if He’d been waiting for a while for a meeting i had promised Him I’d go to, but I had never shown up.

And in that moment, i remembered everything.

The walls of the apathetic well erupted and my secret cry was let free.

It’s the kind of cry that rushes into me like air filling an empty space. It seizes me in its grips and makes me crumble.
It’s the kind of cry that shakes me so violently that i run my fingers through my hair and grasp the roots just to have something to steady my head. 
It’s the kind of cry that makes me press my fists into my eyes and steals my breath away until i’m helplessly gasping for air.
It’s the cry i try to stifle by pressing my face deep into my pillow, holding my breath to still the sobs. 
It’s the kind of cry so deep and overwhelming that i can’t move from where i’ve fallen to the ground and huddled there.

It’s the kind of cry ushered in when i realize the fact i’ve broken beautiful things and they can’t be fixed, and it’s all my fault. again.
It’s the kind of cry that is wrenched unwillingly from a heart desperately trying to close its eyes to the truth it sees. 
It’s the kind of cry ripped out of my chest when i’m confronted with all the words i remember and can’t seem to let go of.
It’s the kind of cry i don’t want anyone to ever see. 
Because it’s the kind of cry that only comes out when i finally admit how absolutely broken and completely cracked i am.

It’s the kind of cry that i’ll only release in the dark. Or the shower. Where no one can see me or help me or comfort me. Because that would be more than i deserve. And a reprobate such as i should suffer more than a few tears for what i’ve done.

It’s the cry of a convicted criminal forced to look upon the damage he’s done; the faces of those he maimed and wounded. 
It’s the cry of a guilty sinner condemned to look at his failures over and over again before his eyes.
It’s the cry of a soul finally realizing the chasm between itself and grace, and the insurmountable grief and torment at the impossible distance.

It’s the cry of regret. of weakness. of helplessness. 
It’s the cry i cry when i can wrap myself in my blanket and pretend i’m five, with my stuffed animals to be my friends. 
It’s the cry i cry when i realize just how much i’ve hurt; how much of the wrecked landscape around me was actually my own doing. 
And it’s the cry that grips my heart and unravels me thread by thread when i’m hit by the realization: i’ve forgotten how to love.