Sticking Cliche

I broke my necklace, mistaking it for fishing line. I was only trying to reach you. The telephone line, my umbilical cord, the last true thing. I can't hold your words, cup them like water in my hands. They are never true. When I finally leave the womb, I can no longer depend on this membrane of worry, and somehow, my mind is less clear. I'm disconnected. Every cliche sticks to my wet body.