The Practice of Resistance


I toyed all night with your number
on my tongue,
pushing it north then south,
rearranging the numbers and
dismissing the confessions
spilling from my tongue.

I was a bundle,
a thick, overbearing
wreck of a being,
all arms and legs
headaches and belly cramps.

I couldn’t help myself
but to sprawl
for hours and hours
in the direction of yesterday,
knowing there would be comfort in your words,
knowing you would always be there for me.

I didn’t make that phone call,
I didn’t send that message,
instead
I packaged it up like I do
so many over wrought emotions.

I picked up a pen
to scrawl incoherently
every word that passed my brain,
previously unnoticed.

On the first day,
I bleed thick and angry.
I do not want to be touched
or seen or wrapped in a blanket.
It is best just to leave me be,
and let me bleed.