Not Sure

I’m not sure of these things:

Why the smell of chlorine makes me nervous. Why sand in my shoes makes me feel sick. Why you can’t close a damn door. Why you leave a used teaspoon on the bench. I’m not sure why I can’t remember where my keys are, where my phone is, where my brain is. Or why you stress about money (it’s just fancy paper). Or why you ask questions you know I don’t know the answer to. I’m not sure why clowns terrify me. Or why you think sharks are everywhere, or why open water at night makes me feel dizzy. Or why raw wood reminds me of my grandpa – or why parks remind me yours. I’m not sure why pillows make me happy, or why my abundance of them annoys you. Or why you think it’s funny when I hiccup, or why I think you look like a lion when you yawn. I’m not entirely sure why when you start your car you look at it like you’re waiting for it to speak, or why you get mad when I leave tiny bits of rubbish in it (yes I do, it’s super annoying). I’m not sure why envelopes make me giddy and fresh notepads make me feel cleansed. Why the smell of antiseptic cream makes you happy, or why the hum of a tattoo gun gives you goose bumps. I’m not sure why I make a mess to clean it up, or why you are so tidy. Or why you think it’s stupid that I fold my underpants even though you fold your socks. I’m not sure why you dance like you’re walking upstairs, or why you blink one eye and then the other when you’re tired. Or why I cry when I’m tired. I’m not sure why I am writing this, or when you will read it. But I am sure of one thing:

I’m not sure of a lot.