I burned my house down to make room for your boxes.

They're locked, you say, from the inside out.

But they're worth the fire, because you look at them like

it hurts not to.



You won't tell me what's inside, so I take guesses.

One box for memories - the big one, with the heavy bolt.

One box for lost things (dog collars, wooden whistles,

A sky full of stars). Things you don't find when you're looking.



I'm made of broken gazes, an anvil and a glass basket.

I'm made of burning houses, and the way I lock myself

from the inside out (and I never wanted to be boxes,

but I can't help that they fit so well).



Won't you look for keys? Tear your eyes from the corner

where the heavy bolt sits, smiling at you with buckled lips.

Won't you look for keys? Stare me down, acid rain that

burns up glass and makes stars shudder (smoke and fire).



I burned my house down to make room for your boxes.

They're locked, you say, and I wish they were cardboard

and flammable, like you're not, and I can't be (I'm locked

glass, I'm already lit, inside out inside out inside out).



One box for treasures (I can't fit in that one).

One box for memories, without any more room.

One box for lost things, and I could move, but my skin

against stars would clatter and melt (smoke and fire).