Sorry I Haven't Texted You Back

by Alicia Cook

That’s always been my problem. I shut people out. I only let them see me from certain angles, in certain lighting, at certain moments. My mother says it’s because I am independent. My therapist says it’s my defense mechanism. My ex says it’s why we broke up. My friends say they love me anyway.

Sometimes I feel like I only feel anything when something is going wrong; that I only drive this far down the turnpike when I am losing my mind.

I’m only human, running on fumes and sobbing at red lights.

When they ask me how long you’ve been dead, you die in my head all over again.

I brush up against a memory, ever so briefly, accidentally. And the wound opens.

How do I silence my mind like I silence my phone? Heavy lies this crown; I want to be dethroned.

Sparks did not fly when you met me, those were warning flares, d i s t r e s s signals.

Maybe to destroy yourself just enough so your current existence can no longer be sustained. This way, there will be no other choice but to rebuild, to come back as the person you’ve earned the right to become.

So much of me belongs to people who no longer breathe. It doesn’t leave much for the ones still around me.

Taking sleeping pills, because if I wake up after noon, there are fewer hours in the day for something terrible to happen.

I wanted to tell you that night on Broome Street that I didn’t choose agony. It chose me. I chose to survive though.

Now, the monster under my bed falls asleep before I do.

But I’ve lived without things I’ve needed to live for such a long time. My ability to mend after something ends is uncanny.