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“Kinds of Tears” by Zoe Zhang

It’s funny how there are different kinds of tears.  Tired ones that creep from the corners of your eyes, brushed away with impatient fingers; dry, stinging ones that burn your eyes red, your vision black; happy ones that keep flowing, that crumple your face when your mouth flashes between a smile and a frown, your voice a disbelieving wet laugh at the joy and aching relief in your heart; angry ones that turn sad, and inevitably sad ones that turn anguished and lonely, a current you dab at until swollen, or let drip down your face at night as you lie in bed and it slips into your ears and dots your pillow, salty stars on linen sky.

And then, the mix of regret and love and bittersweet, on your tongue and sticky in your throat, like emotion’s got you sick, words broken and hiccups helpless, nose leaking, and body stupidly tired, like you endured the thrash of a river, limbs trembling, numb from the cold.

And you want to laugh at how you’re still crying, and you wonder if you can exhale grief, if your heart will tip you over from its weight.

You wonder if biting your tongue on these cries for too long has broken something inside your eyes, which are crying too many kinds of tears.

Zoe Zhang is an editor, writer, senior college student, and all-around geek. Double-majoring in English Literature and Creative Writing, she likes reading horizontally, rollerblading vertically, and sweater weather.

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