Wicked Game

Pieces of something not fully formed

In moments of weakness I convince myself; I am strong enough to reach out to him, casually.

Check in without checking out of my body for months on end afterwards. I run through all the possible outcomes in my head, to assess whether or not I can survive them.

I stare at my phone.

If he doesn’t respond, I’ll be ok. If he responds hours later, I’ll be ok. If he responds right away and I run back into his arms, I won’t be ok.

I decide not to text him.

I reread his horoscope, mining for an inkling hope. I shuffle tarot cards fast while I repeat his name three times in my head. If the Devil jumps out of the deck, I know he’ll come home soon.

Psychic ability runs in my family.

Instead of using it to win the lottery, I focus my talents on predicting when he will start watching my Instagram stories again. The ones I post only for him. It’s hard to tell who’s manifesting who at this point.

We call each other in like the winter calls in the spring.

He lay dormant until the winds change.

When the weathervane spins like a top, it’s time to batten down the hatches. I stick up my courage, oil up my heart, comb my straw hair, and tell myself

“You will not go down that road again.”

Sometimes the message comes days after the first touch down. Sometimes the destruction hits immediately and with one “hi” I am spinning.

I pick up the phone and put it down somewhere far from where I found it, but it’s too late, the damage is done.

I feel him enveloping me. My stomach twists as my head spins. I try to anchor myself to something, someone, anyone.

Be strong, be strong, be strong.

Wait at least ten minutes to respond.

Finger on the trigger.

Text something mean, tell him to fuck off, say nothing at all.

Be cool, be cool, be cool.

I can’t.

“hi honey.”

October Passed Me By