Neat Little Boxes

I sit with my hands folded, neatly,

neatly to contain the insanity

neatly to pretend that I have everything under control

neatly to ground the left to the right

neatly to let the emotions peel and curl in a nice, neat pile

neat stacks of emotions forming orange peel ringlets at my feet.

Neat like the letter piles, crumpling inward, glowing orange, brown, and black.

Neat like the memories, semantically arranged in my mind.

Neat like our bodies lying next to eachother, this limb neatly folded over that.

Neat like our good-byes, softly spoken through streaming tears and damp hair.

Neat like the phone calls, the deafening silence, the words sticking to our throats.

Neat like the sickness in our hearts, the nausea, the confusion.
Neat like the ghost dreams of ghost feelings in a ghost house 
with a white picket fence.
Neat like the numbness holding back the tears.
Neat like the promises that echo back the lies. 
Neat like the lingering pain tied up in neat little boxes, 
someone else's mess. 
To you I was always someone else's mess.