box with string

after we fight you bring me presents-- not to make things right again; presents to weigh me down, wind me in linen, shroud me in gauze.

you give me confusion in a box with string.

sunday morning i open it as you watch from the doorway; my eyes travel over you in dismayed arcs. you are smug, magnificent, scratched lenses.

sitting in the sunday morning sun, amid the wreck and ruin of crumpled brown paper and quick cut twine, i hold confusion in one hand, watch you laughing quietly to yourself, and try to think of what i should say.

later, you should come and find me. i only need you to tell me, "you don't mean that; say you're sorry." i really don't; i really am.