We piled up dishes,
yours and mine, both.
We didn't feel like cleaning our messes- we both had our own only we could handle.
It took months for us to realize how high the plates were stacked,
-actually, at first, only I realized.
-actually, you never realized.
We had plates in every crevice.
You balanced spoons on top of the photo albums,
I piled forks on my old notebooks,
Knives were stabbed into the walls,
I put bowls on top of my albums,
You stacked plates on your bed,
I put the cups onto my bed,
and we could never really sleep again.
We couldn't open old letters or see past pictures,
(things grew easier that way, or so we deluded to ourselves)
and the plates and silverware and bowls and cups
ruined our lives,
so that we had to learn to live with our own messes,
but, eventually, I realized
I couldn't live in this mess;
I started to clean up. I made some **** good progress, too.
It was a challenging task, but I've done well.
I can sleep most nights now,
but sometimes I still turn and find
a fork lost somewhere in the sheets.
When I open old folders, sometimes a teaspoon falls out,
and I can't help but get lost in the mess again,
but it's gotten better for me; it can get better for you.
You're not letting it, though.
You go out and buy dishes just to ***** them,
because you get a kick out of living in a mountain of plates and silverware.
I don't think we can ever be clean again,
completely at least,
but you've got to get rid of your mess,
or else, you'll be just another plate in the pile.