Stuff in boxes

And the things that get stuffed inside hearts. It comes out as stuff in boxes. Things that never get sorted. Stuff that stays in boxes.

Stuff your anger. Translation: don’t talk about your shit near me. But I’m anxious. Cuz I’m questioning myself cuz I’m not spozed to be hurt or angry. The I cry because I’m anxious and mad and that looks like depression which gets handled in shame and isolation.

Moving the boxes of stuff back to their place. The physical manifestation of my former surroundings. It’s taking a longer time than I anticipated making sense of my surroundings this time around. Moving is the word of the year. Home is the word for next year. Which is this week.

Back to the stuff.