The contraption they made for me wasn't made of mahogany or pine. It didn't have my name carved on the side or top or woven in between a lovely vine.

The mask I wore was hard and plastic, reaching down my throat, stealing my voice, my choice, my right for air, my only care. 

I'm inconveniently sewn wrong. Stitched little ***** with a piece of my hair going nowhere, breaking, splitting, and firing a blank flare. In that me made contraption, that not so piney box. I need to detox.

The mask grips my face tighter, the spider beneath the box is a fighter but not me you see. No no not me. I'm the malnutritioned meal deal for the arachnid to steal. I close one eye grieving the salty cheek, I can feel the watery streak leave it's message bleak across my pale cheek.

This plastic prison wasn't comfortable or maced with  satin or lace. I understand for light years beyond my grasp of taste that once upon a time ago I must have lived a life of disgrace.