A Coffin for Her Weeping Groom

I was born with a broken tear reflex.

My tear ducts leaked without my permission, spilling over at the slightest tremor of friction, fear, or exhaustion. To the rest of the world, it looked like calculated weakness—a pathetic, weaponized bid for pity.

Eventually, I grew tired of explaining myself. I stopped pleading. I simply wept and waited for the end.

When I was five, a radiator fire gutted the south wing of the county orphanage. While the other children scrambled for the fire escapes, I slipped into the room where the blaze burned hottest, climbed onto an iron cot, and pulled a clean…