i used to live in boxes, not just the ones from packing my life away and expediting it, or where i would store myself under old refrigerators, making soft buzzing noises with my tongue
i kept things in them, wings plucked from butterflies and soaked in the sickly sweet scent of formaldehyde. it was satisfying to separate myself from all the spheres of influence and drops in the bucket of my mind.
the past was all accorded for, the present mattered not. i could get by on scratching windowpanes for golden flecks of light. as long as i had the memories of being too young to understand thoughts, i was okay, and okay was a word i could say without regret. it promised nothing.
so what chance did you stand, all silver and sparkles, speaking backwards and boiling over with steam? you pretended it was virtue you were smoking, hand-rolled, on the slowly sinking porch. i could taste it as hypocrisy, some softest contradiction.
and i wanted to seal you off, garnished in a soft sort of word salad, and dressed with adjectives like “lonely” or maybe just a little bored. my way was too angular for your knees, softly curved as they were, and supple on my chest. you compartmentalized so sloppily into a stream-of-consciousness story.
so there is a box for you, sitting somewhere, and i confess that i always wanted to sleep alone. a can of soda can be champagne if i’m celebrating something. and so i think i’ll spend my night sugary and sober, painting the sky cardboard and faded, like a memory without a frame to hold it in.