every time i call it goes onto answer machine

you sleep alone on a double mattress in the corner of an attic cut in half by a mountain.  

your voice is the broken laminate in the living room that lets in the rain where your mother stood and yanked your child out of the door
who sunk into the garden path between binbags full of dogshit and discarded toys and chewed its tongue into pieces and spat and spat.  you are granulated hedgerows and the embankment where you fractured
a religion on dying trees
buried a spell in the back yard
and fucked yourself in the shed because you learned young  that sex is a desiccated fly.  you are clawing scabs from your mouth.  

you are asbestos.