Snapped hanger on the floor of my closet: this morning I was movingsodamnfast that when I ripped my shirt off the hanger it broke.  Clean in half, Right down the middle.  Shattering.  No splinters, just hard wood falling on hardwood.  Redundant, like saying ATM Machine or Queso Cheese. 
Get a grip, I say. 
It takes a lot of similes living like this.  Living like, like, like getting cut off by the end of a voicemail messa--Like listening to the same radio talk shows over and over, not music, just someone rattling about the world as if they know it.  Talking about the world as they know it.  You can say you know the world and you can talk about it for hours.  You can drink it down like bottomless coffee and you can eat it up like propaganda.  We can say we understand it all, we can talk about what we do know for hours, but by the time the phone beeps we won’t have said anything at all.  What’s really saying?
I ask, who came up with the idea of quotes; sure, your brother said some stupid stuff when he was four years old about bad guys and robbers, but your parents still call it classic.  Who cares?, you ask, he was a toddler.  Who cares, and, you say, he never knew what he meant, anyways.  Still, he doesn’t.
My bracelet was carving into my wrist.  I wanted to take it off, and I couldn’t.  I’m screaming with my mouth closed or I’m yelling without a sound.  Jewelry is the only accessory a girl needs, right-- And those are clichés, but someone told me clichés exist for a reason. 
I think I’ll just break the bracelet instead.
Wouldn’t that piss her off.
I left some voicemails anyways: but I doubt she listened to any of them.
I left voicemails, not texts because I didn’t want to make any tpyso, can’t risk big stuff like this, can’t risk little things with her. My fingers hurt, and the buttons on my landline are worn out.  Mutilated like afterthoughts of a massacre.
Maybe I’ll call again,
Maybe I’ll put five fingers in my pocket and pull out the biggest one.  Say what I mean, for once,
But not to her. 
I couldn’t to her, can’t risk stuff like that.
Can’t risk her not calling back.  Can’t risk her thinking I’m insane, can’t risk her feeling my sweaty palms, slimy. Fearing skin that won’t stop crawling and it’s getting closer, you know.  Getting real close, skin crawling, like bugs up peeling wallpaper.  Crawling like that s*** out of horror movies, crawling like
Crawling like babies.  Crawling like the age I was, but where the f*** was she? Crawling like she was never gonna teach me how to walk, and wasn’t that her job?, crawling like a lot of stuff but never needing her to stand on my own.
Call back.  No answer.  Pick up.  Dial tone.  Deadbeat like no heartbeat like empty beers on the couch like why won’t she pick up her damn phone.