Lock me in a box and

I don't understand why I keep tripping over your remains or how I manage to guess my way around the rules when I haven't even figured out how to give myself away like a cheap backdoor deal, let alone kill you in passing. But the build up is the best; the creation is what makes it worthwhile; I don't have the patience to enjoy artwork, so I try to drag out the making of until I have to cut it down dead, because playthings aren't supposed to talk back. I have a habit of picking up pieces and sewing them together with my own time, and I never seem to realize how that's dying as the end. I always jump to page three, instead of forty-two. I'm a logical thinker, but in matters of your heart, I forget that I'm supposed to have one. Cut me down before you learn how, and you might be in the clear. You've got a plan, but you're queued; you'd think in such a long line of bones that someone might point out that you're too abstract for a second thought. I would, but my mind is a little weathered to begin with, so I think I'll drag that goat around for the time being. So sorry for the confusion, I didn't know. No, I know the answers are kept in the back, but I can't be caught cheating or I'll lose my place in point. Don't distract me with answers I already know and don't fling the turned up dirt in my face as if I didn't notice that I'm not the best at concealing the aftermath. Luckily or not, I don't know what trick shop my mask is from and I don't particularly want to find out. Lock me in a box and feed me blood, someone is going trip me eventually.