a week in july

tuesday. i’m fine. i sit at work, clinging to my desk. i’m fine. i remember your voice on the phone. i spiral. i cry alone over the lunch hour./have you been crying?/my boss is annoyed that i can’t control my anxiety like she can./an invisible fiend i can’t get off my back/i leave work.

wednesday. at least i still have your flannel./there’s an astonishing amount of crows that have moved into my backyard./ their cawing sounds like a distress signal./ it’s hot. i fill galvanized buckets with water and tell them it’s a bird bath./maybe i shouldn’t have fed them.

thursday. my period is three days late now. i assume it’s from the stress. i assume it’s because you left again. i assume it’s from crying.

friday. i watch quentin tarantino movies in the back yard with a paintbrush braided between my fingers. true romance is my favorite. you liked my teeth, i paint a picture of them. i call it a memorial.

saturday. i wake up to an empty house./god, it's so quiet, why is it so quiet?/ i play sid & nancy on repeat. i let my brain marinate. i clean to distract myself but i spend most of the day sleeping. heartbreak is exhausting.

sunday morning. you call me at 12:54am. i always stay up until 3am on the weekends. i think it’s less lonely when you're hiding under darkness. jesus, i missed your voice. you knock on my door. you bleed the scent of alcohol. we kiss like teenagers. i let you sleep.

sunday afternoon. i get dressed and stare at the blank space from the hem of my shorts to the top of my shoes/a blank canvas/i wish i wasn’t too nervous to walk into a tattoo parlor./i drive you downtown. you left your vehicle parked safely at the bar. thank god.

monday. i should’ve crawled into bed earlier. i’m light-headed and hungry. i miss you but i don’t check my phone. i make it to work. i’ve worked here for ten years. i’m fine. i sit, clinging to my desk.