Here I am, standing before that dirty mirror.
Where he used to say "Crying doesn't suit you".
In his arms, looking at my weary reflection, I never understood why.
Years passed by, and I stood before that, now foreign yet the same reflection.
Swollen red eyes, wet cheeks, throbbing lips.
Now I get what he portrayed.
Crying doesn't suit me when I'm with him.
And I'm terrified this may be the last time I would ever glance at myself and imagine him beside me, and hear him say those words that I barely remember the voice of.
Please, Father. Please don't ever give up on me.
Don't let crying suit me...
