Phone Call. Line One.

Cancel the call; I’m not sure I can talk. 
My tongue is wrapped in plastic, smothered in the stench of overrated words. 
They trip and then stagger over the spit that sits, still collecting and bubbling over my feeble lips. 

I can’t swallow.
Anything that I try to force down my blistered throat is thrust back upward in haste. 
I can’t eat. I can’t drink. I can’t even swallow spit.

I pity myself. 
My mind and body have parted separate ways. 
And I believed I was okay, 
It’s useless to even try to uphold these hopes any longer, for they just get covered in the plastic of abuse. 

I was standing on my tip toes in the pool of my past of blunders, 
But, someone decided to break all my toes and I now sink to the bottom, 
letting the words spill into the spit as the plastic festers my open tongue.