Sitting on the floor of my apartment
Eating peanut butter from the jar with
My fingers, I don’t want to ***** a spoon.
Surrounded by boxes filled with
Belongings that don’t feel like mine.

On my way home, boxes packed into
My mother’s car. I would have driven
Myself but two months prior fate
Pushed my pretty red car off the
Road with a U.S. mail truck. *****.

Unload the boxes in a room that
Looks like a memorial to childhood.
The memory of summers past are
What I cling to now, for the next three
Months feel like someone else’s time.

Look for a job. Look for a car.
Look for signs that he moved on.
Look for an excuse not to and
Go to the beach by myself instead.
Look for a place for storing boxes.

I should unpack. Boxes arrogant
And weighted to compartmentalize
All the expectations I would rather not
Remember and disappointment  
I am tired of looking at.