My life starts its healing in clean sheets. With each pillow, organized by color, placed, my heart stop its race. Once the fitted sheet begins its unwrinkled ironed perfection under the matched duvet, all twinkling of deception in my mind slowly starts to detect an escape. The clean sheets erase the once present Calvin Klein with lavender, although quite sublime, leaves something behind in its trace. With each article of clothing put back in its drawer, my mind organizes the chaos of the sore world and creates corresponding compartments for each: love, heartbreak, hurt, heartbreak, happy times, heartbreak. With each trapped and looking for way to creep back to me, I move on to my bookshelf. With each book heap rearranged and slowly put back, tallest to shortest, my thoughts take away my fears, largest to smallest and with it my tears, the snotty sobs and the weeps and streams of water to cleanse the heart I’ve convinced isn’t broken at all. It just needs dusting. I dust away at all my room, hoping to dust the hurt and the memories of the life I’ve yet to bloom, and hoping to exhume some strange part of the life I hope to one day lead. My shoes put away, I stomp out the hope and the dream of what will never more than bruise my thoughts again. I find my calendar. I plan each hour of the coming month with such precision that any division I could envision could not interfere with my decision to imprison my own mind to the order it has so delicately brought on itself. This is me. This is the life I lead. I rhyme in time because my mind forces it. I organize and plan and calendarize and anti-randomize until all is back to the chaos it was before.