pretty crier

History of woman 10 (2023), Florence Dussuyer

The most sinister vice is the one you feed from when you feel most lacking.

I’ve always had an uneasy relationship with my tears. Growing up internalizing less than pretty words made me not want to see a lot things. I might’ve grown up hollow, avoiding a face I didn’t want to look at because of what I believed about it. I would rather imagine an image of me, no matter how contorted it seemed. No matter how twisted.

What’s the easiest way to be seen, except when eyes are shrouded by desire. I tell myself I’m more rooted in my soul, not just my body because my inner needs are screaming. But they don’t pierce ears. They only grasp and clutch achingly on bare skin. And it’s easier to cry when you’re needy but detached and unfeeling.

I find myself staring at the sea often, admiring waves freely go back and forth as they please. I’m more like silt on the seabed, slowly rising and settling in unease. Escapes are temporary relieves. And in liminal moments, I play pretend I don’t exist. Keeping things unchanged because I wouldn’t want time to keep moving.

I’ve noticed a new emotion that comes when I stop hearing my inner voice. I badly want to say I feel numb but it’s something that feels much worse. Or maybe it’s still there but muffled by avoidance. Avoidance of a gaze so striking, I’m scared it’ll shred apart my entire being. I’m always something I’m not until I feel like nothing.