I think I'm ready to say something now. I don't want to interrupt,
disrupt,
create a problem or the
beginnings of       one; it's just
   I'm having an increasingly
heating
back burner of concern
that if I don't say something now-ish, I won't return
to this place where mentally
I'm hovering anxiously
around the microphone,
fidgeting and shuffle-footing,
wanting, yearning
for someone
to know. 
Unsure 
where to start;
who or what can I
awkwardly deliver 
this information to-
<Hi it's not my first day at UPS, but it sure seems like it, doesn't it? 
And I am so, so, sorry for dumping all these oversized, unsightly
boxes right on you, like, you are basically trapped under all these
unpleasant, heavy boxes - they feel like there's boulders or something
in them, right?  It feels like I've been carrying them around for ages, 
but no one's told me where they go, and I don't even know anymore
if I ever even asked what to do with them, but I'm not sure who to 
even ask,  you know, I don't even know who to ask who to ask
what to do, and so when I saw you  - I know you're just the 
receptionist - but you smiled and said hello, and the boxes just 
like were let loose on you, I didn't mean for that to happen, it's
just been a really long time since anyone's really talked to me like 
that.  I know - these boxes aren't even addressed to you - they're
actually not addressed to anyone, they're my personal boxes and I
don't have anywhere to put them right now and neither does anyone
else, I guess, and I just lost grip on them, I'm so sorry this is so
very embarrassing>
a living
person, place or thing
that cares to hear
what I'm trying
to be saying?
Let's be honest 
to the point of brutal:
it's doubtful.

 And what was so important for me to say, anyway?
  Nothing that happened was a big deal. 
What even happened? 
Nothing. 

Suddenly, I can't remember anything that happened. 
What am I even going on about?

The distinct events that make up the surreal
blur of the last 5 years are diminished to nothing but 
      (hypothetical, here) 
obviously-expired
vending machine sandwiches
that are falling out
       of the half-unzipped
outer pockets
          of an over-stuffed, dirty backpack
I've been wearing
on my back
that the expired sandwiches - 
for some reason - 
were crammed into.

All these reeking,
undesirable,
unappealing things,
unceremoniously
sliming
a painfully drawn-out
try to escape
from my
oblivious possession;
baggage on my back,
where I can't see them-
just to anticlimactically
finally
slip slop gone
to be slap-splatter impacted
on the plastic by-product
and concrete-protected,
ever-evasive earth. 

              ou est le monde?

In my delusion,
I seem to have forgotten:
       I'm wearing
the embarrassing, stinky rucksack
with        expired,           gross-looking
       vending machine sandwiches falling out
         of every opening,
even the ones zipped closed
     even
places where there weren't openings before 

          the sour poison of the decomposing things
   has eaten through areas of the host bag - 
                    an overused, underkept,
sad sort of a filthy sack thing,
one that would seem to be
entirely unnecessary
                       for me   to keep strapped 
at my core
                      everywhere I go,
but this unwittingly
fast becomes my identity
apologetically
disturbing and offensive
to those who happen upon the
misfortune of exposure
to myself and my load of
toxic sandwich baggie baggage

(This is kind of what it sounds like:)
Everyone, except for me -
a long-time resident of an alternate reality -
have quickly concluded easily that
 I'm just overemotional,
over-dramatic,
an eyesore, ear-sore,
hemorrhoid; 
passive-aggressive, 
vampire,
stupid
self-pitying,
self-victimizing
bi-polar predator,
manipulator
attention-hungry, 
insatiable  selfish
lazy  liar
playing helpless
playing dumb
waiting for a savior to save saintly I
save me from ever again
the impossible task of supporting
myself and my children
themselves in desperate need of rescuing,
trapped as they were with me -
unfortunately forced
dependents
of a delusional
dependency-distraught douchebag 
insane for reacting
the way that I have
to ordinary life stuff
wallowing and broken
- why else would I not be "better" yet.
And why can't I just be normal do normal things
just leave the house
it's easy
just get up and
walk out. 
Just answer the phone it's easy what is wrong with you
pick it up
tap the screen
make have sounds come forth
from within
and out
my mouth
spot.   

From here, the un-helpful
doubt and dread can take a very
deep dive into
a heavy, useless place
that I wish
would get less
deep, dark, and real. 

The white elephant in my bathroom
trumpets on the hour,
every hour,
the motivation-murdering potential
that
what I say will be dismissed
"again",
my truth overwritten by
a pre-recorded story line
that's been
passed around in
outline form, filled in
by anyone
with a pen
and lured in
by the "what'd you say?!" whispers 
of the sudden,
absolute decimation
of my persona, my family, and
nearly every single
individual
material thing
once "belonging" to those guys,
who once existed
as somewhat respected,
paycheck-protected,
as recognized.