I trapped my soul in a music box.
The pearls around my neck sit upon
an empty set of hollow bones that
creak whenever you hold me.
I'm not beautiful.
The pale and curve of my skin doesn't
radiate with sunlight and bring out the
green in my eyes or the flowers in my hair.
I am the negative of a photograph you'll never take:
I am the mistake.
The blood pooling around my finger nails,
the heaviness of my chest every night, the
same time it came yesterday.
I am a prisoner to a mind that never ceases movement;
I am a consistent mess you'll never hold.
My soul sits in that music box,
buried beneath boxes of old magazines,
bags of couture, and the crates of
everything you prefer over me.