Bloodstains on the Telephone

There are bloodstains on

the telephone from our

last conversation

Strained vocal chords and

swiped words are

digested and

flushed out like

ipecac, crippling

every millimeter of

every millimeter of

our insides.

We could

walk away from

these diseased nights,

leave each other

with arms that are

devoid yet

unscarred but we

see needles in

each other’s hearts.

It’s sad we’ve become

the monsters we’ve

feared since infancy;

we hide in the

closet, whittling each other’s

sunlight until the

day itself cries.

I apologize for

everything as I

break down the

door, rip my

ink stains from under

our bed, and jump

out the

window to

the grimacing concrete

below.