Piles of brown boxes and opaque plastic bags form a baricade around my bed, making it difficult to escape. All lined up, boxing me in, not letting me go. I plead with my boxes, I have to move. My most cherished items feeling neglected and unwanted tossed into the depths of stiff cardboard. If a fire were to happen in the next couple of weeks, I'd be able to escape with all of my favorite belongings packed away; that is if I can make it out of this baricaded bed.

It's all these boxes in my car, or I'll never kiss you again. My choices limited to moving out and living with you, my love, or leaving you and moving on. I am not ready for either one. It feels right to stay with you andit feels like the right time to grow-up. But this is not about you. This is about me. I am too young for both.