Crying isn’t a symbol of weakness

nor giving up,

nor being alone and throwing it all away.

Crying doesn’t signal an end.

It’s merely a spring of an oasis for a mind that’s been knocked out too dry

from all the wretched chaotic hurricane of thoughts.

It lets a heart twisted in chains be uncaged from its shackles.

It tells a soul accustomed to sucking everything in and up,

to drop it all and take all those emotions in and then heave them out,

banish the demons from its body.

Crying isn’t a banshee’s scream for attention.

It’s a werewolf’s howl,

a call for betas in deep solace with the hollowness in the union of the night and the ungodly hours.

Just so they know they’re part of a pack, these mistaken lone wolves.

Crying isn’t the mark of an end,

it doesn’t equal to a finale loomed over by heavenly rains and summer flames.

“It could be the catharsis of a sunrise.”