Notes on Heartbreak

by Annie Lord

I like to measure my tears too. To see my suffering quantified, categorised. I cry until I have a dehydration headache. I cry until my face crumples up like tissue paper and then I take a picture and send it to my friends, and they say, ‘I’ve never seen you look so sad.’ I cry until I can’t remember when it was that I wasn’t crying. I cry until I’ve worked through more tissues than a person with the flu. I cry until I feel as though I might have given myself the flu. I cry until I’m craving salty foods, anchovies, capers, chips, to replace all the electrolytes I’ve lost. I cry until it feels as though I could fill my bedroom with tears, the carpet sodden, squelching under my toes, liquid rising up until I’m paddling in it, wetness creeping up the walls until the paint turns damp and flakes away. I’ll cry until the skin of my calves becomes pruney, until I can swim around the room, until my belongings start to float out of their drawers and my legs strain from doggy-paddling above the wet.