I thought my eyes had run dry,
taken over by sand dunes in the night.
But they are wet as I tell you this lie –
they are tired from caving into The Cry.
It plagues them with a quick sting,
so sharp they answer to its beckoning.
Tears become part of the following –
they roll slowly and begin to sing.
Their tune is awfully sad,
telling the story of a love so mad.
Neither was loved and neither was glad –
but they held on loosely to each other’s hand.
These tears, they always do fall,
whether it is the eve, noon or morn.
They slither and weave and crawl –
Until I am unmasked, naked and vulnerable.
The Skinny Fat Girl 