Fake Tears
By verdant
You know.
In all those paintings and perfect little stories about love, the beautiful girl always cries with elegance.
She is like a fountain, spewing icy tears while her face remains as stone. Her face is pale and flawless, her azure eyes blazing in the moonlight.
And she is so utterly beautiful, it is almost painful to watch. Perfect tears for a perfect girl.
But it real life, none of it is like that. When someone cries, they don't look beautiful because they're not supposed to. Who knows why or how you come to spill these strange liquid droplets anyway—but they say it signifies an immense sadness that cannot be described in simple words.
That's why I love her.
She cries an awful lot, and when she does, she does not just stand there like an empty statue while her cheeks grow wetter by the minute—her shoulders start to shake, her hands tremble violently, and she is sobbing, her voice sounding so broken.
Her eyes get red and blotchy, her nose stuffy and her hands are running through her hair, making them impossibly tangled.
She feverishly whispers to me all her troubles, and it's my job to look helpless and simply listen.
She looks like a nightmare. But it's all so real and fresh, and I don't want to rip this painting up unlike the ones of the beautiful goddesses crying alone under the night sky.
Sometimes I need her to cry to remember that I am real too.
Because when she cries, it is not almost painful to watch—it is completely a disastrous event, and I swear to you that everything inside of me has collapsed because of it.
I gather her up in my arms and wipe at her face until its dry, and then I kiss her cheeks and tell her to hush.
And when she stops, she somehow manages to smile up at me, and her wide, brown, blood-shot eyes tell me she loves me.
And it is the most beautiful painting I've ever seen.