What She Saw

She saw the crate before she saw anything else.

Her eyes landed on it like a verdict.

I watched her face not change,

which was worse than if it had.

It's blue plastic, faded.

Holds the books I'm too lazy to organize.

Holds the lamp that's missing a bulb.

Holds my life up,

literally,

in a way that seems to bother everyone but me.

She didn't say anything.

That was the worst part—

not the judgment,

but the kindness underneath it,

the way she swallowed

whatever she was thinking.

I got defensive anyway.

"It works fine," I said.

She said, "I know."

Which meant: I know it works,

and I know why you're using it,

and I know you know I know.

After she left, I was so angry.

At her for seeing it.

At myself for being angry at her

for being kind.

At the crate itself,

sitting there like proof

of something I didn't want proven.

I thought about buying a real nightstand.

I thought about it for two days.

Then I thought about how it would feel

to admit that this was wrong,

that I needed fixing,

that the plastic crate wasn't enough.

So the crate is still there.

And I'm still here,

balanced on something temporary,

pretending it's a choice.