I cry too often at romance novels

It isn’t joy crying,

That overwhelm of neurochemicals seeking

A resolve at how wonderful it is

To be seen

To be loved

Instead it is like with a lot of self harm

Staring at the things I Cannot have

Ineligible joys

Digging into my brain what I can touch 

Diminutive occasional “fine”

Until it weeps

A vast ocean between. 

When I am done sobbing

I numbly wipe my face

Drained

Blank

Dissociated from it enough 

To nod and turn the page.