There’s a tiny box that sits on the shelf in his room. So small, it rarely gets noticed. What’s inside would shock you. The desires he wishes he didn’t have are in there, next to all of the times he felt insufficient. Beside those, there sits all of the embarrassments he suffered when he chose to take his clothes off— the time he too quickly lost his virginity, perhaps. Next to his nakedness, propped up against the far side, is a small, sad pile of muted grey ash. A closer look would show all the love he freely gave and could never get back. And although it may never catch the typical eye, folded up in the dusty shadow in the back left corner of that tiny box is me. I am in this box too. Jumbled between unwanted desires, and intimate regrets, I wonder if this home is my choice. I wait for the tiny box to open; to feel admired; to be more than a shelved secret; to feel a starved gaze; to breathe fresh air. I wait for the tiny box to open. I wait.