Why do people feel compelled
to comfort you when you cry?
It’s not as if their words
take away the pain.

Why do mothers rock their infants
as they wail in indignation?
The restraining confinements of her arms
tangled about the child,
strangle the life out of him,
like a boa constrictor
wrapping itself around its prey.

Why do friends pat you on the back
as tears stream down your face, like acid
carving a path through your broken soul?
The blows only serve to personify
the beating your heart has taken.

Why do loved ones hold you in their arms
as you heave in sobs?
Their arms only suppress your sorrow,
containing it,
augmenting it.

Why do people feel compelled
to comfort you when you cry?
It’s not as if their words
take away the pain.
It’s not as if their soft murmurs
help to dull the ache.
It’s not as if their gentle pats
heal the hurts.

No. The only way to do that
is to cry.
Cry and cry hard.
Scream until the pain
empties into the air
and out of your body.
Curse until your rage
turns to exhaustion.
Kick, punch, and throw
until every living being
knows your agony.

Only then
does the roaring fade away.
Only then
does the burning smolder.
Only then
does the misery dull.
Only then
can you recover.

So cry, children. Cry.