I once made a man cry. It was near midnight and the dim streetlights made his tears glisten. He stared at me with such intensity as he spoke, lips trembling. People passed, unaware (or ignorant) of the way my words hit him. We sat side by side, still, on the cement planter box. My arms rose, only to find themselves embraced around my own body: I had to give myself the love I deserve. There was something about the midnight air which made my thoughts blur. The cold stirred all sorts of selfish emotions. Or maybe it was the alcohol. He spoke of the way I pushed him away and how it worked so effectively; he spoke of the resistance I create when we are together; he spoke of the way he adored me. I listened in silence. My response was a laugh. It was the laugh that crawled out of your throat slowly because nothing else seemed any more appropriate. It was the uncontrollable laugh which traveled to his ears and forcefully pushed down his throat until he could no longer breathe properly. It was a lethal nervous laugh.
I once made a man cry.
No, my truth made a man cry.