Slowly slowly,

A cynical way of crying calls for silence.

Tears become unconventional objects

that could be wiped off from my cheeks

and wiped back on clothes,

until the wet leaves no mark of existence.

Hush-hush,

The pain would go away

and vanish with no trace,

as though it is meant to remain unknown.

By then, all will be well, and the scars shall

thrive in pretense.

I have chosen a way to cry, one that's 

subject to destruction, silence, and denial.