I never answer the phone when it rings,
and when you text me
I make sure
to reply when I know
you are sleeping, or eating, or bathing. 

If you ask me why
I'll tell you I wasn't around,
I'll tell you I was busy, 
but I'll never tell you;
I didn't want to. 

When you see me next, 
you glare and ask 
if I think you are a fool
to keep calling—
but I'll never tell you. 

Because maybe you
will not understand, that 
phone calls and texts, 
and notifications and exclamation marks
are strangers to me. 

That when they touch me,
I coil into myself,
like a touch-me-not,
only that no-one is touching me—
only my anxiety. 

So the next time you call me, 
I will not answer,
instead I'll show you 
my nerves, and maybe 
you'll understand

why I never answer
the phone when it rings.