Level

I straightened the frames at midnight

and couldn't stop, couldn't quit—

they weren't quite level, not quite right,

and sleep felt impossible, unfit.

So I adjusted them again, and again,

third time this week, maybe fourth,

and I don't count because then I'd have to explain

why I'm drawn to this ritual, pulled forth

by the wrongness I can feel

like a stone in my chest,

like something fundamentally not real

about leaving them unfinished, unrest.

The photos inside don't matter.

My life, documented and hung,

and I can't let the order shatter

because control is all that's clung

to me now. Just this:

the perfect angle, the perfect line,

the world contained in this,

in getting it right, making it mine.

At 1 AM I finally lay down

and thought about the frames,

wondered if they'd stay aligned

or if tomorrow I'd do the same.