Two in the morning.

There are days that you wake up, like today, at 2am. 

You don’t know how you slept that long. Secretly, it was because you were waiting for a phone call that never came. You told yourself after that phone call, that’s when you would get up. 

Silly to sleep an entire day away because you didn’t get a phone call. 

But you wake up at 2am, and you have this horrible pain inside that probably has a name but you don’t know it. A mixture of hopelessness and hate and doubt, a cocktail of worry, and it’s making you sick to your stomach. 

You fantasize about your lover, rough and brutal. You think about the bruises, the hand around your throat but this time it goes further than usual. Spit on your face. Blood down your back. Hand over your mouth and relentless violent lovemaking that never hurts as much as you want it to. Calling them names, asking if that’s all they got. It’s not going to be enough this time.

You fantasize about someone breaking in. There’s nothing to steal, but you hope they have a gun and you beg for them to use it. You can’t decide if you’d want it in the face or somewhere less lethal, but decide less lethal sounds like an awful lot of effort when it comes to recovery and in the grand scheme of things would just make things more complicated. 

But you really don’t want to be shot in the face.

No one deserves to clean that up.

So you wake up, and it’s now 3am and you go about business. You hope for a phone call once the sunrise comes. You hope for something.

No one deserves to clean this up.