TB ( / )

The Phone Works Both Ways

waking up, whispering 'good morning' to a red sheet
over the pillow next to me at two-forty five in the morning.
i could have sworn i wasn't alone,
but at the same time i thought it was bright
and early, the sun ready for me
to greet you to a ride to your house.
i don't suppose i know what i woke to.

all the voices sound different, and a misguided
cigarette lands askew to the ashtray. some form
of comfort to forget the passing events that did
or did not take place, my mind can't fathom.
my bare back to the white wall, moon blazing
behind the dust-filled blinds, and i stare
past the open door'd hallway:
the bathroom. the last place to fall asleep, the only place
i've woken to comfort.

oh, emily,
tell me again that my heart has skipped
another beat. please tell me you're tired
of seeing me this way. hide the pills again,
beg me. an 'i'm sorry' and 'i forgive you'
would feel perfect right about now.

oh, dearest, you don't exist again.
oh, these shadows and ghosts
can't comfort me forever.
oh, dear god, what form
of schizophrenia have i been reduced to
where a voice tells me, every so often,
that one day i will be okay?

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