You’ve memorized the phone number
even though it’s only been three days
since things went south—
since it was made clear to you
how much better things would be if only
you were someone else.
If only you didn’t cause so much embarrassment
by posting so often on Facebook.
If only you’d stop asking everyone
if they were comfortable and warm enough—
and what the fuck are you doing
posting your shitting poetry online?
You don’t know how to sleep now
with your head full of hot fizz and pressure
like a vice grip squeezing you into knots.
The fetal position isn’t what it used to be,
and neither is this life you’d been enjoying
so well until now—
this moment you realize your heart
is hacked up on the light beige carpet,
almost out of reach.
And the phone is a tool that could pry open
the darkness of your despair, but—
the battery dies because you’re the kind of person
who doesn’t prepare for the future—
and all of a sudden you no longer have one.