I like to make you watch me cry

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


Sound of glass breaking

The sound of glass breaking

is one of the most terribly sweet

things, like the laughter of thin-lipped,

bright-haired, born-beautiful girls

rippling in the air

through their cheekbones so high

and razor sharp

that they can go

cutting through hearts.

It’s like pixies giggling,



pinching on my skin

about how ugly I really am.

It’s painfully freeing

like finally dying

while a Tuesday morning

aches into light, not too far.


Untitled No. 8 (Shattered Glass) 1959 Nigel Henderson 1917-1985 Purchased 2007

Image by Nigel Henderson 1959