Recieving Phone Calls from Hell

It was the best of times, and she was getting tired of it.
She is a creature of change, after all, and she has her needs.

On the bedside table, she left
a sketch of me naked, looking out the window at something dark and unexplainable.
And then she left herself on the floor.

I don't know where she went,
but I get phone calls with no area-code from
wherever it is.

They say, don't worry. She's fine.
No she can't talk. Yes she wants to. Is
she alone?
They don't answer that question.
They also don't answer the question, “where the hell did you
bastards take her?” or any of the more polite variations
of that question.

I imagine her,
beaten up by herself. Beating herself up. Surrounded
by the fires of hate of self.
They used her.
And I killed her.
But she started it.
Dammit, she started it.