‘america’s #1 network’ doesn’t mean shit if you can’t use a phone

on silence, surveillance, and signal that never meant to stay.

you ended it.
(or maybe you just dropped the call and never picked it back up)
either way, 
i was left holding the silence.
like it might turn back into a voice.
like it might mean something.
if i stay long enough
i might hear the static shape your name.

no goodbye.
no click.
just the line, 
open and empty.
a wire between us
that hums like guilt
but never delivers.
no conversation.
no closure.
just the soft click of absence,
dressed up like a decision.

and now you tune in again
not with words.
not with anything resembling courage.
just a view.
just a number.
(say my name, coward.)
like you meant to say something
but choked on it.
like a call that never rings
but still lights up the screen.

sometimes it’s the burner
(the one with the fake name
and the same rhythm of regret.)
password scrawled in guilt.
like shame wore a username.
(i know your fingerprints
even when you wear gloves.
don’t insult me.)

you unfollowed the thread you used to want.
but kept holding the string
like you might tug it
when you feel lonely enough
to need attention
without consequence.

you blocked the sound.
muted me,
but left the screen on loop.
lingering…
pressing your face to the glass
when you think i won’t notice….
like a dead channel.
crackling back to life
only when no one’s watching.

like memory is a peephole
and my heart is still unlocked.
like the scent of someone else’s cigarette
in my sweater.
like a voicemail i didn’t know i saved.
(i play it sometimes
just to feel something ugly and mine.)

(do you think this is subtle?)
(it isn’t.)

you only knock
when the lights are off.
you only dial in
when i stop calling back.
you want to be felt
without the risk of being heard.

why do you do it?
you’re not curious.
you’re cowardly.
you don’t miss me,
you miss the version of you
i still had on record.
(rewound, replayed, romanticized
even when it hurt my ears.)

and maybe that’s what burns.
not that you left,
but that you won’t hang up.
that you haunt the dial tone
but never speak.
that you know exactly
how much silence
i’ll try to translate.

i have conversations
with your silence
every week.
they always end
with me apologizing (why?)
for calling a dead frequency
a home.

last night i dreamt you said something.
just one thing.
(sorry. maybe. stay.)
(i wish i could say that with less shame)
but i woke up choking
on everything you didn’t say.

just say something.
one word.
a shitty explanation.
an apology with its tail between its teeth.
just to prove the silence had shape.
that it wasn’t all in my head.

but you won’t.
because the view is safer.
the distance is easier.
and you know.
(you always knew).
that love means returning,
and regret means eavesdropping.
you only miss being the sound
on the other end
of someone else’s desperation.

but i’ve grown quiet, too.
i don’t leave messages.
i don’t check my notifications
for ghosts.
i don’t check my missed calls
for “no caller id.”
i don’t press the phone to my ear
like it’s a promise.

i cut the cord.
i swallowed the dial tone.
i screamed until it echoed.

this isn’t love.
this is interference.
emotional piracy.
you take,
but leave nothing.
this is rewinding the tape
just to hear your name in the background.
this is dragging your guilt
across my screen
because you don’t know
how to sit with it alone.

i don’t want your story views.
i want my bandwidth back.
i want my peace back. 
i want to stop flinching
every time a number jumps.
i want to stop hoping
your silence means something
other than apathy in slow motion.
i want my time back.
my clarity.
my mornings without nausea
and my nights without reaching for omens
in old playlists and profile visits.

you wanted the tension
without the tether.
you wanted the connection
without the consequence.

this isn’t a phone line.
it’s a leash.
it’s a noose.
it’s a way to keep me near
without getting close.

(is this care?
or cruelty?
did you think i wouldn’t notice
you’ve been standing in the doorway
with the cord in your hand?)

(why do you stay on the line
if you have nothing to say?)

so if you won’t speak:
don’t watch.
if you won’t stay:
don’t linger.
do it with your whole chest.
or don’t at all.
this half-presence
isn’t romantic.
it’s pathetic.
your absence
isn’t poetry.
it’s performance 
(it’s surveillance.
it’s self-preservation in drag.
it’s the ghost of a god
you never learned to pray to.)

(do you remember?
i was soft.
you were silent.
and now i’m louder than both of us.)

so if you’re going to stay
on the line
just to hear me suffer…

hang up.

because this silence
isn’t neutral.
it’s a wound.
and i won’t keep bleeding
so you can feel
like you were worth the call.