who i am

she used to cry
a lot, using
a bucket
near her
bed to catch
the tears.
by the end of
the week it would
be full
of her sorrows
and cares.
she would carry
it around
with her
and people would
stop
to tell her
how sorry they
were for her
troubles,
her sadness.
they'd offer to
empty it for her
or to it
carry down
the street, but
she refused.
how would they
know about me,
she'd say,
who i am?
if my bucket
was empty.