The Civil Wars ~ No Ordinary Love
Keep crying (Keep crying), keep trying for you.
I Keep trying (I keep trying), I keep crying for you


In the past, if tears fell, they used to make Him hesitate, as if His confidence had stalled.
Have I done something wrong, have I gone too far?
In the past I used to fight hard to suppress their appearance, travel inwards, hold them back.
I must not appear vulnerable in front of this man.
We were at odds with ourselves, with each other.

That weekend, He told me He was going to make me cry, and He did, that much is true.


Tears, catharsis, the venting of frustrations.
Tears, cascading, the proclamation of a deep connection expressed.
On the surface, both must look the same;the hitching breath, the body that aches, the eyes which leak authenticity. It’s only the truth concealed inside which marks the subtle, but important difference.

That weekend, I cried so many tears, for so many reasons, a tsunami of an emotional purge. I rid myself of the need to hide my tears from Him, the need to hide my emotions, my vulnerabilities completely exposed.

To cry as a result of the infliction of pain I can do, these days, without too much hesitation. One might even go as far as to say I enjoy the opportunity to do so. There’s a deep irony in that fact for someone who used to fight vehemently to maintain composure, and offer no reaction at all.

He looms over me, formidable, unyielding, uncompromisingly proud, His physicality exacting as His hand grips my throat with an intensity not often unleashed. He owns every breathe I take, revelling in the act of denying me whenever He so pleases.
He peers down at me, hungrily, as my tears fall uninhibited.
His head cocked to one side, He seems fascinated, curiosity piqued, as I wail my lament. A smile settles upon His face, one I’ve seen many times before. He’s enjoying himself inflicting this torture upon me.

His hair has fallen over His eyes, He’s lost in the moment, lost and comfortable within the heady realm of His sadism. He looks beautiful, there like that, so at home, so at ease with my suffering.

But to embrace the tears from a place of emotion, from depth of feeling, of being overwhelmed, that was something of which I’d previously been denied. I denied it for myself, I forbid myself to go there, felt anger if the occasion arose whereby my mask of resolve slipped. Yet now, if I could reach inside myself and hand Him my tears, one by one, hands cupped to catch them, I would.
Humbly, at His feet, accepting every aspect of my submission, I’d thank Him for each and every one.