I can go,
but I can’t.
I can stay,
but I can’t.
I’m trapped in a box.
I can’t see anything.
No one sees me.
No one hears me.
They say they listen —
but they don’t.
They say they care —
but they don’t.
They try —
but it never matters.
No one gets me,
but they pretend they do.
They talk,
but not to me.
They look,
but not at me.
They never see this box.
All the happy days
the happy moments,
they’re out there —
never in here.
Not one good thing fits in this box.
It’s always a box.
The light is out there —
so far away.
I only see it when I’m good,
when I’m quiet,
when I obey.
If I don’t,
the box shrinks.
It presses into my chest,
steals my air.
No space.
No air.
No light.
No room for me.
It’s always so dark,
but somehow so bright outside —
just not here.
Scary nights alone.
Happy days I can’t reach.
Everything is dark.
Everything is small.
I can’t breathe.
No one comes.
No one helps.
They’re not here.
They don’t see the walls closing in,
the walls scratching my skin,
my lungs empty,
my head spinning.
When do I get out?
Do I have to follow every rule?
Do I have to twist myself small
just to leave?
Why can’t I make my own box?
Paint it with colors.
Punch holes in it.
Why does it have to look like theirs?
Why do I have to drag it around
when it only drags me down?
Where is the help?
The ones who promise
to make my box bigger —
to give me air —
where are they?
Not here.
Never here.
They don’t understand
how heavy this box is.
They can’t hear me
screaming in it.
They don’t want to hear.
They don’t want to see.