Lunchroom Tears

She removes her hands from her face to reveal harlequin tears strolling down salt colored cheeks that glare with a thin layer of blush. Green eyes gloss over and pour out in public. Her boyfriend carries on. He laughs and he plays, while she sits next, while her entirety bleeds out in salt water ectoplasm. She runs her hands through firey red and orange dyed hair. Her eyes dry; take a look inside and one can see her hurt. She hurts, she hurts, she hurts. If the eyes are windows, I can look through and see a monster. It jumps from organ to organ. The monster climbs ontop, punches, digs its long, yellow nails into each. We've all suffered that monster. It's a distilled sickness that wears a cloak of paranoia, rests it over one's shoulders to watch them squirm. A common ailment we have all experienced, or will. I have, You have, The potbellied harlot on Main St. The teachers, The Cubans, The old Russians. Fret not, For with the expulsion of this lunatic demon Comes life, Comes wisdom, Comes strength, Comes a new appreciation. So raise your chin, young cherub, look up child, young, fragile darling. Your day looms anxiously as it waits to blanket you. One day, you will meet the King Of Men. He will shine bright in your teary eyes. Think high, apple blossom. Wade on through your tears; allow yourself the chance to bloom.