fedexed

all i know about myself is

i like cold coffee. my bangs look nice right now, because i blow dried them from curling and banging up against my forehead in queer angles.
i check the mirror and they are still in place. my eyebrows are even too.

but i don't know what to do with myself. i am my own puzzlement.
there are too many boxes in our brains. post boxes, mail boxes, blog and thought boxes, and wires dangling in between the gray-green brainy mush, each reminding us of all the things we should've said to someone or wanted to say, but we were alone instead. with those technologies that are supposed to keep us more connected.

is this too much? post boxes.

sylvia plath was depressed and so she killed herself.
what did she think would happen to her babies? one and two crawling on the floor with out her.

sheryl used to be a man. but now she is a woman.
when her children were little, she was their father. but now she is married to a man with bulky muscles and her kids have a new dad since she isn't their dad anymore. what did her babies think?

they are not so old yet. neither am i.

i am stuck in my own box tonight. did you place duct tape on top of it? shipments go out in the morning.