You Wouldn't Hear Me Anyway

I stare at my feet as though my Converse high-tops are currently the most exciting thing in the world, twirling a strand of hair around my finger. The stitching on my shoes is red. I just noticed that. And the shoelaces are kind of frayed on the ends; the tape I put on is dirty.

Him: Talk to me? I don’t understand.

Me:

I’d like to tell him. I really would. No wait, that’s a lie. I have to keep my mouth shut. Lock it and throw out the key. I’m standing on a crack in the sidewalk. I think that’s bad luck. I should move, but I can’t lift my feet. It’s as though they’re stuck, superglue prison. Like those dreams where you want to run, but you can’t.

Him: I really miss you.

Me:

There’s a little ant wandering around between my feet. Most people would kill it, but I won’t. It’s kind of cute, actually.

Him: Please, talk? I can’t do this with you anymore.

And say what? I kick at the ground, and wonder what happened to the old me. The non-broken one.

I wonder what I would’ve said, if nothing had changed.

Me: