Tears as Libations

If I don’t do anything else, I’ll cry my sorrows away and come out clean.

My eyelids is like levees but my tear ducts is like glaciers
As I contemplate creation, the salt that heals my wounds pour out my eyes just like libations

— A.P.I.D.T.A x Jay Electronica (2020)

As a child, my family used to pick on me a little bit about how much I cried. My older cousins used to tell me their memories of how they would be babysitting me and couldn’t get me to stop crying. Since I came out of my mother’s womb, I’ve felt deeply. Deeper than others. Maybe even too deeply at times. My heart has been stitched onto my sleeve from my first breath of life.

When I find it hard to form the words, I let my body do the talking that my fingers and mouth cannot. That’s one reason why I have two books I’m writing that haven’t been touched in three weeks. These last few days have been intense. So many changes to keep track of. One too many avenues to march down. All while fighting a depression bug that came like a thief in the night and has been trying to get away with all my stuff.

Defeat is an understatement. Exhaustion is a feeling that my mouth can’t yet describe, but my body knows the sensation all too well. It starts like a vibration from the bottoms of my feet that travels upwards until it throbs in the coils of my locs. My eyes carry the baggage of sleep that goes missed. Spine becomes curved at the slouch of my posture. My fingertips tremble anytime I try to touch something or someone with meaning.

My world seems like it's imploding.

I am exhausted.

My fingers haven’t formed words in days. But my eyes have poured out salt cured waters like spiritual libations, an offering to myself, to let me know that I am still whole. The tears soak down in my DNA and they replenish my soul. For a few days, I’m fine, dried up like a forgotten well until I’m reminded of something that strikes my emotions in a way I shy away from. Then, the tears fall again and I’m back in a cycle that’s hard to get out of.

Using my tears as libations is almost like pouring out one for the ancestors and or the homies that have fallen to the woes of the streets way too soon. Except that offering is to me, myself, and I. I pour out and pour up for myself. Filling the cracks of my fibers and nourishing all of my bruises. Healing the wounds I either forgot about or didn’t know were there. Crying keeps me afloat. Crying elevates me into the heavens all while opening my mind to see things for what they are. Ironically, crying keeps me from drowning.

These libations come with a price, yet I feel renewed once they have been spilled. As an honor to my thoughts and feelings, the truth of who I am is how I heal. My sorrows may weigh me down for a night, but tears help me endure forever. I’ll continue to pour them out for the rest of my years. I’ll relish in them for everlasting comfort.

There’s nothing wrong with these tears.

I am made whole with these tears.