Tiny salt daggers
made of twinkling
that stab
and laugh at
defenseless eyes

leaving a warm
snail’s trail of
collected dejection,

that always looked
so beguiling on the
dampened cheeks
of some botoxed,
pouting actress

alas, but they
only serve
to hold her
at greedy random

where the price
to reveal this doleful self
to an emotionally
unprepared world

would only
simply result in
unadorned humiliation

But the dikes
finally open
against her will,
gilded gates gleaming
in the dawning sun

as white foam crests
toss themselves
against her, battering
her body with the
most violent of
tremors and quakes,

she suddenly
finds herself
numb and
preposterously frozen –

“Why can’t I cry, when
I so desperately
want to feel the tears
roll down my cheeks
without the slightest care in the world –

these closest
the gentle caresses
of a warm human hand…?”

As if to answer her question,

the smallest tear starts
descending down her cheek,
as battered orbs
raise the white flag
of surrender in her mind…


Don’t let them fall;
don’t let this
numbing reality
fully realize itself –


yes, keep the rest
of that melancholia

shove it all
into the jam-packed
closet where you
locked away that
yellowed shot
of your mother’s
tear-stained face,

(squeezes eyelids)

as you stuff your own
bruised fist into your
gagging mouth,


even as this bomb
slowly ticks
towards the
inevitable zero –

(tick, tick, tick)

for you shall save this
woeful weeping of yours
for a miserable day

far more wretched
than this one –

© Zelda Reville

4 thoughts on “Teardrop

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