I left my room to cry in the park. 
I hoped the smell of wet grass
would trigger the primal part of me 
that fabricates tears. 

After a few sad songs, 
a few sips of too hot tea, 
a few breaths of thick air, 
I squeezed salty water 
from my eyes,
into my hands. 

The dirt is softer than 
my polished hardwood floor, 
the grass is greener
then a poisonous Victorian hat.  

I rearrange my skirt, 
and worry about my mascara. 

Why must I feather myself 
Instead of washing off the tar?