Voicemail

This is not me.
This is not faithless poison.
This is not your arms around my
plethora.
This is not my aching.

These are not your words
on the receiver.
This is not my ticking bomb,
the eating out of someone's heart.

This is not you or
your god blinking through
mutation.
This is not white Christmas

with me in your kitchen.
This is me breaking the dishes.
These are not greasy
excuses.

This is you in the doorway
thinking about us
bending into
something ugly.

This is me watching you
enter
and leave
like a magician.