On the First Day

I toy all night with your
number on my tongue,
pushing it north then south,
rearranging the numbers and
dismissing the confessions.
I am a bundle,
a thick, overbearing
wreck of a being,
all arms and legs
headaches and belly cramps.
I can’t help myself
but to sprawl
for hours and hours
in the direction of yesterday,
knowing there will be comfort in your words,
knowing you will always be there for me.
I don’t make that phone call,
I don’t send that message,
instead
I package it up like I do
so many over wrought emotions.
I pick up a pen
to scrawl incoherently
every word that passes my brain,
previously unnoticed.
On the first day,
I am thick and angry.
I will not be touched
or seen or wrapped in a blanket.
It is best just to leave me be.
Let me bleed.

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