Room 102

I'm down to my last
Cigarette,
Fingernail,
Nerve.

The night has folded in on itself.

I don't know where you are
Again
You won't pick up your phone
Again

I know, without needing to be told
That you're substance-happy and incoherent
Again
And that if I talk I'll only nag
Again.

And so it comes to this,
It has to.

I'm too tired to perch
On the pedestal you made for me,
The one I proudly, foolishly clambered atop:
The fall has left me ugly

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

But I cannot do this any more.

Anna Russell