I am convinced
that the thud in my chest is just you playing ding **** ditch
that every time my throat gets itchy
it’s just the first thing you said to me that day
trickling down inside of me
“I was with someone…”
ellipses as if you were unfinished, unsure, unwilling
burning my eyes
my fingers
my tongue,
like spices.
And I am convinced
that my only friend is the automatic toilet in the library’s first floor restroom,
catching me with every dry heave, holding it down for me, making noise so no one else can hear me sob your name.
I am convinced
that my pillow has seen more water than Noah.
my baths smell of the day we spent
kissing on your soda stained sheets.
sleep
stress
I am convinced
that the involuntary trembling my body withstands is caused by the earthquakes in your eyes,
the feel of your warmth on my *******.
But the depth of your voice on the phone when you said, “I love you too much,” wasn't enough to convince me of anything.