when women cry

These are expensive tears. They run down, and they hurt. Don’t look back, they say. Don’t look at the past, they exclaim, but they don’t know. They haven’t seen. They haven’t felt. The pain. When they do, it will be too late.

No forgiveness for the wild ones. No turning cheeks for the rebels. No running for the brave ones. They hurt too, yes… but their tears are made of different water. Different DNA. These are the diamond tears, forged in the oven of the obstacle lane. They are expensive; they are rare.

When they cry, you can feel it, you can smell the rain on their shoulders. They know you are one of them. You run like them. You never forget their silence. No, not even in the night.