pandora opens her chest at midnight: it is a box left out in the rain, a wound unstitched in despair for october, a small voice hushed by forlorn hours.
and dead gods forget so easily, but pandora still opens her chest at midnight and the walls huddle to look at an ugly wound left open to bleed all over dusty pink cosmos flowers. and drapes huddle, too, to look at a nest of sorrows creeping about, as though a wake, a vigil, a somber watch that only ends with all of my bones breaking.
but dead gods forget so easily, and dead girls forget so easily, and i forget so easily all the aching hours that had kissed my skin and their graceless, moonlit pull, and i am left to lie languishing on soft, breakable spots.
and so pandora closes her chest: a box to never be opened, a vault behind a frame. a flash of stray light on a wound sealed shut. safe. secure. there is no space for conspicuous melancholies. there is no space for anything — there is no space for hope.