Post 12 : Boxes

Squares are the worst. Brown ones especially. That makes boxes, like, extra the worst. Brown squares connected to brown squares that have gaping shadows, and you're just supposed to toss your entire life into them. Or what’s left of it. Then, when you do, cause you have to (not cause you want to), they take your interconnected brown squares, the strangers, the strangers you trust with what’s left of your entire life. They cart them away in those stupid trucks that are just bigger boxes. I’d kill for a circle, an oval, hell a rhombus is good enough, I just-

Then they stack the boxes in front of a house. A house you didn’t grow up in, a house that’s actually far away from where you did grow up, from everyone you know. No this is a house far away from everything you ever knew filled with strangers who don’t want to meet the new neighbors cause this neighborhood isn’t ‘like that’. That’s what they say even when they’re peeking over the hedges to see if you have a cat or a dog or a body to bury. This is a place where you can’t walk two blocks down and visit your friends, or take your bike to the ice cream shop in summer, cause you don’t even know where to find the ice cream shop and your friends are two days away and-

Then you have to carry those boxes into the house. You have to look at your new room, those people who moved your entire life already got you a new bed and a new desk and a new everything cause your old stuff didn’t make it. So you have to put the boxes on the floor, because the new bed is too nice, too new, too not yours to put the boxes on it yet. You have to wait until it's your old bed, even though the floors are just as new, but you can’t wait until floors are old, floors get old the second you walk on ‘em, and they just keep getting old until your dad is buying more of the stupidest shape on the planet-

Those boxes have all that’s left of your life in them. You look at them and you realize how little is actually there, you have to look at them and see how much you lost. And you have to think. Maybe the squares aren’t the worst shape in the world. Maybe it's good, Dad says it's good. Fresh start, fresh house. The neighbors don’t know enough to pity us, they never will. You won’t stain this pillowcase with tears, it’s too nice, too new. Maybe the squares weren’t the bad ones, maybe it was the rectangles and the triangles. The triangles that burned up everything you love until all that was left were pictures you had to reprint, in frames that are half familiar half ash and should probably be replaced. The rectangles that trapped her, and the ones that went with her into the dirt.

Maybe some boxes are ok. Maybe some aren’t.

Brown still sucks.