The taste of tears

They say to add seasalt to garnish desserts
But my tears cut in finer than butter
Salty, not sweet
I don't taste my confections
The tears trickle down cheeks and into my mouth like a fountain called Misery
And so I will never be dehydrated
But my lips remain cracked, tongue fissured
While I may flourish in mountain streams and waterfalls
I have never learned to swim in the sea
When I was young my grandmother held me on her lap and read me Tear Soup
If that kitchen ever needs a new chef
I have all of the qualifications
If your food is too bitter or sour or sugared
Sprinkle a sliver of my sadness and watch it dissolve away into salt
Fresh vegetables may be fine for young horses
But the factory mules like them shrivled and dry
My face has two shiny pink lace-lines running down it
Where tears have burned highways to the end of the world
I once heard a horrible man refer to a woman as a "baby machine"
And I realized, that is what I am like
I am a tear machine
I am a fretting factory in a sorrowful settlement
I am the man in a train going up a steep mountain
Looking at the coal bin and knowing we won't make it over the crest
I am a plate of brownies or macarons or tarts
But the cherries and chocolate and flower and eggs have all deftly been replaced
With salt