I can I know

Tears. A baby is crying. Its ok.
Babies can cry. Shrieking. Silence
Please. Be less loud. Calm down.
I want to, but I don’t know how.
Help me? No. Not right now.
Tears. Prickling pain behind the eyes of
A six-year-old child. Spilling out. NO.
Stop that. What is it this time? A question
Asked. And an answer unheard. I can’t
Stop. I want to hide. I can’t
Hide. There is nowhere to go.
Pain. Emotions leaking from 
The depths of my soul. I’m ten,
Twelve, fourteen years old. The
Tears don’t stop. Like you’ve asked
Them to. Like you’ve demanded they
Do. Who left the faucet on? Again.
Why do you ask if you don’t want to know?
How can I answer when no one is listening?
I hide in plain sight. Everyone can see.
Stop it. Grow up. I wish that I can. I try.
Over and over, and over again.
I’m fifteen, and for the first time,
I get to cry alone. I’m thrilled.
I’m seventeen, I’m nineteen. I cry
Silently. I cry inside. 
I cry, and finally, the
Tears dry up. You’ve won. I think
I’ve won too.
I haven’t cried in months.
That’s great, I tell myself. But 
The prickling pain. 
It isn’t gone. Don’t 
Be so sensitive, you’ve
Told me. Ok. I wont. 
But I am. And instead of spilling
Down my face, I cry in 
The wrong direction.
I’m twenty, twenty-five, thirty.
My veins flow with unshed
Tears. My blood is salty and
My cheeks are dry.
Sometimes, my emotions
Get the better of me.
I cry for a minute.
And stop.
I’ve worked too hard.
I can’t
Let go. My
Tears are hard to access
Now. I want to cry. I wish that I can.
I try. Over and over, and over again. 
I’m thirty-three. I can cry.
I will cry. I cry. My
Tears are coming back.