Thursday, July 15, 2010


by Stephanie Wytovich

The phone refuses to ring
I wonder if it’s broken
Or was quietly murdered
During the dead of night

It taunts me
Stares at me
Its numerical patterns
Circularly counting repetitively
Around the clock
While it ticks away seconds
And tocks away minutes
Relentlessly stealing hours from me
From my day
The carpet itches my thighs
And my nails dig into my arms
A nervous twitch
That draws blood
I try to distract myself
My spinning head is to full
To think otherwise

You’re probably busy
Wrapping yourself around her legs
Your tongue down her throat
Panting to the rhythm of her movements
Dancing in the crevices inside her
Or screaming to the beat of your heart

You’re probably occupied
Talking to your friends
Telling them about your night
You spent in a drunken stupor
Drowning in whiskey
Swimming in beer
Yelling at family

You’re probably lying
Telling them you’re in love
After you beat me in your room
Left me stained with tears
Dried blood on my lips
As you passed out in your bed
And I drove home
And broken.

You’re probably living your life
Going about your day
Like nothing is wrong
While I’m left
Sitting by the phone
For you to call,
Because I know if I leave
You’ll find me,
And I’ll be worse off
Then laying on this itchy carpet
In your run down apartment.

I’ll be dead.

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