I don’t contain my uncried tears back to eschew their quietus. I shan’t whine over the image I had created in my mind of the woman who was the beauty standard of my time. My dacrology system is working overtime to ensure the timely production of my tears. I invite my tears to create a gestural abstraction-inspired painting on my chemise. I plead for their freedom so that the tears may do as they please. But my tears are unusual, with contradictory desires. I understand now that I don’t detain my tears in captivity, but my tears are my captors. This is why I’ve come to the conclusion that none of my tears cry. This is not because they are fierce, courageous, and brave. My tears are afraid, they refuse to let me accept that I’ve failed. They are cowardly, they won’t let me wallow in the shame and embarrassment I’ve acknowledged as a result of my actions. My tears are my captors, I understand now, I don’t detain my tears in captivity. My tears are unfair, the restraints they have on me are making me suffer immeasurably. The are inconsiderate and selfish, protecting what they will name as my ego when they’re protecting their own. None of my tears cry, and they never will, for as long as I live. So now, I might as well accept it. Accept that I have no need to be upset or excited, it won’t get me anywhere. That I shouldn’t waste time being disappointed or prideful. I should just stop confronting or acknowledging my emotions, totally. Seeing as the full presentation of me doing so is disabled in my soul.