I like to make you watch me cry.
I like to go somewhere unseeing, unhearing
of ‘darlings’, ‘tell me what’s wrongs’
and other sweet nothings
—a place so far that you can’t save me from drowning.
I like to go there and cry,
while you watch helpless
as salt mountains crumble
and roll down my cheeks.
I like to make you watch me cry
quietly in a sort of everyday horror
while we sit at the table in silence
as if what we’re eating is just dinner.
I like to make you watch me cry
because it takes out my pain and all its pieces,
lays them out in a live exhibition
that you have no choice but to comment on after.
I like to make you watch me cry,
because after that game we just played
where you take the things you love and tear them,
darling, I’m feeling cruelfaced.

Image—photography by Rosanna Jones http://www.rosannajones.co.uk