When I was five my father said,
"stop crying."
He said, "big girls don't cry,
tears are for the weak."
And because I was daddy's little girl
I quit my crying to make him proud.
At thirteen I lay crying on the sofa
And my mother said, "stop crying."
She said, "boys aren't worth our tears;
he wasn't good enough for you anyway."
And because my mommy had belittled
a broken heart
I held back my sobs that day.
At sixteen I sat crying
with the phone cradled to my ear
and my best friend said, "stop crying."
He said, "I hate that girls are always
crying over the dumbest things."
So I stopped my weeping and hung up the phone,
because I didn't want my best friend to think me a silly girl.
I was eighteen and made a fool.
I ran to the bathroom as the tears
threatened to pour out.
In the corner of a stall I pulled out a blade.
With each clean slice
the need to cry faded away.
I cut and didn't cry because I wasn't weak.
I wasn't weak because a broken heart was nothing.
A broken heart was nothing because I wasn't a dumb girl.
I cut because I never wanted tears to wipe away again.
