I never meant to look at you again,

But you called me anyway.

Your voice at the other end of the phone line,

Coated in salt

And you rub it in my wounds again,

“Are you coping alright?”

The ‘without me’ is implied

Like the way your voice goes hoarse with tears.

To be honest,

No, I’m not,

But would I ever tell you that?

I confided in you

And do you see how you repaid me?

A rush of blood runs into my ears;

The path of a snail

Sent from my heart

To yours.

The telephone stares up at me

Solemn black numbers inform me

That your number is indeed connected with mine

And I connect the numbers to the letters:

568-3968.

lov-eyou.

How ironic

And yet subliminal.

“I am,” I say,

Meaning to add a ‘coping’,

But failing.

Igrip the phone in incompetent hands

And slowly press ‘off’.

No chance for you.

You’re hot off the press,

Off my mind,

Off my back,

Out of my space,

My house.

Out of my life.

Author's Notes: /sigh/ FictionPress is being an asshole, so it's not letting me break it up like I want it to be. This isn't written at anybody in particular; it's supposed to be about a divorce. Obviously, as I'm sixteen, I'm not divorcing, and I don't know anybody in the middle of one. It just kinda came to me. Let me know what you think?