Don't Call Me - Vicki Rubini

I won’t say the words, but I feel them as I squeeze my cell so hard I think I might pop out its guts. I can see it’s your number on the screen.

Don’t call me. I am sick of it all. Literally. My eye lids feel like water balloons, I can’t stop coughing, and the only thing I have to look forward to is night time again, when I have the excuse to take my codeine. I can’t even work out my tension at the gym (you would think my abs would be getting tighter from the hard push of my coughs and sneezes, but such is not the case). I wish I could get a nose transplant. And a heart one too, for that matter.

I can’t breathe.

Everything is deteriorating. Maybe it’s my fault. I was too patient for too long. I don’t want to hear any excuses, though. I have just had it.

The sad thing is, I have no idea what’s going to make me feel any better. I have no hope for our relationship, and yet it is empty without it. If I look back on the way you made me laugh and smile, it brings a moment of pleasure, followed by a worse ache. I don’t know what to dream about in my future. You were my future.

So I am in this odd spot of wanting you to call, to see it all meant something to you as well, and at the same time, not wanting to hear your voice. Someday the calls will, in fact, stop. What will I do then?

I release my squeeze on my cell, and put it down. I sneeze out viral impurities and open a new box of Kleenex. Don’t kid yourself. It’s only for my cold.