she puts it in boxes because she doesn’t know what to say when he screams. she can find a place for it if she thinks hard enough and if she forgets long enough and if he just shuts up for a second she can fold the lid over and shove it aside. if he just shuts up long enough, she can remember how to love him again, she can think of him without having to remember why she was with him to begin with. she thinks to herself without saying a thing to him, please just settle down, at least let this box gather some dust.
she puts it in boxes because the alternative would be cutting her womb open and letting it all spill out and maybe just maybe he would slip on the floor and crack his head open to notice. instead she makes room in the box, makes room in the basement for each new box. they aren’t all his, but he seems to be taking more room than she had ever planned for. it’s gotten to the point where she no longer bothers sweeping, she can’t see the floor anymore anyway, she’s starting to stack them all atop another.
she puts it in boxes because it’s all she knows how to do, it’s the only thing she thinks she does well. there’s always the bedroom and the kitchen but god knows she’s done trying with him. and the truth is it isn’t all that bad, half the things he says about her are true, how barren and worthless she’s become, but he always ends up being kind, up to a point. so she looks out the window and notices the frame, how it splinters, before she actually ever sees the street. are their boxes as big as hers, she wonders. do they need any boxes at all?