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Somewhere
there's a box with all the answers
overflowing from its cardboard sides
labeled "No more questions."
in thick, black Sharpie.

And under my bed
sits a box with all my sins...
forest green jealousy
clay red anger
and magenta infidelities
all molded into crayons
that sketch pictures
of butterflies turned to monsters.

And on the high shelf in your closet,
is a box of all your excuses; dusted and worn
each sugar-coated word
and lie-laden sentence
sit in neat piles
waiting for
your next failed relationship to run its course;
for your fingers to dial for my voice once again.

Somewhere,
sits a box with all the answers
high on a mountain
buried beneath
everything that went wrong.