The Phobia of Phone Calls

Curled into a "C" on the bed with the cellphone pressed against my ear, and my spaceman sheet half across my torso.

Paralytic like the bodies belonging to feet that have stepped on rock fish.

I hear the sounds coming from the receiver, but can't process their true meaning.

So I bury my face deep into the sheet to hide the fact: I'm losing my mind.

I don't want to burden you.

I just want to be there to help you change your facial expression.

Your were there, but the voice I cared about was missing.

And the words and stories you told drilled tiny holes through my brain.

Old school torture.

My stability is escaping like carbon monoxide and I'm slowly starting to lose consciousness.

Until someone wakes me up to explain to me how your going through serious shit, and makes me feel guilt for the inability to understand.

Your still on the line, telling me that you don't want to talk to me if I keep misspelling your name, I'm sorry I didn't realize.

You have to go.

"I love you"

You have to think.

You hang up, and don't know when you'll be able to talk to me again.

And I'm exhausted, which is why I pull the trigger of the gun made out of my hand, and watch the bullet pass through what's ever left of my head, and crawl into a tub of ice water with no expectations for the next couple of days.