the shapeless things that don't fit
I will pack all of your things into a box, quietly, one night alone in my room. I will pause over things that were never yours, that you bought for me on whims, and things we bought together, and I will look at them blankly, not knowing who they belong to now; not knowing what they mean. I will press your shirts to my face, vainly seeking the scent of you, so long ago replace by the scent of me.
When I have scoured my room, when I have fought to keep myself from retaining these pieces of you, I will push the box under my bed, unsure of what to do with it. I will think of mailing it to you, of the look on your face as you remove the tape and pull back the cardboard folds, and I will suck my bottom lip into my mouth, my teeth pressing too hard into my skin. I will try to imagine what you will do with these clothes that now smell like me, to guess how many times you will have to wash them before they're yours again.
I will think that I should do us both a favor and throw the whole mess in the trash, and it will be then that I cry.
When I have scoured my room, when I have fought to keep myself from retaining these pieces of you, I will push the box under my bed, unsure of what to do with it. I will think of mailing it to you, of the look on your face as you remove the tape and pull back the cardboard folds, and I will suck my bottom lip into my mouth, my teeth pressing too hard into my skin. I will try to imagine what you will do with these clothes that now smell like me, to guess how many times you will have to wash them before they're yours again.
I will think that I should do us both a favor and throw the whole mess in the trash, and it will be then that I cry.