—I GOT YOUR MESSAGE

 

Pig Latin

 

 

When we weren’t talking, I fed off your voicemail like those tiny fish in the tank nibbling dead skin off tourists’ feet in Cabo. I cauterized your cadence and inflection, indexing the lethal pause between I’m not available right now and white noise.

When we weren’t talking, I spoke to the walls in Pig Latin and transcribed book covers as if they were Tarot cards or the Dead Sea Scrolls. I tried to dance in my office, but cracked a vein open on a swivel chair, blood spelling out someone’s future in crimson ligature. 

When we weren’t talking, I pulled the heads off things—cauliflower, dolls, pens—thinking I might find answers underneath, but everything just seemed silly and useless, like where we were then. 

When we weren’t talking, I bought a body bag, dug a hole and covered it with words until gibberish was the thing that finally did the trick, that filled my mouth and throat and lungs, until there was nothing left to be said or thought but (…).