Across a void of space and time far away from where I am supposed to be, but a lot closer to myself
Headed away from home but towards it at the same time
All I have is a select few thoughts packed into boxes
Boxes that I treat as if they're a part of me
From boxes on wheels to boxes that fly,
To boxes that clearly say, "I live as if I'm never going to die."
We go looking for more boxes, boxes that we places parts of ourselvs in
And sometime we decide it's time
To give away a box or two
After all that we've been through
Castles built of boxes tumble time and again
And yet we build, for boxes will always be available at a bargain
They say "No need to carry your own boxes, let us do it for you!"
And while you're waiting on your boxes; Here, it's on us, have a brew
Boxes of color, boxes of shapes
Boxes that distinguish us based on our drapes
Drowning in a sea of boxes, can we barely see land
But thankfully whenever you want to move your boxes, there's always someone to lend a hand

So many years ago, I packed away my childhood, each year was placed neatly in a box, labeled and sealed shut with packing tape. And I took those boxes full of memories; memories full of pain, fear, sadness, abuse…and I placed them in the far back corner of the attic of my mind. I made the boxes diminutive and negligible, they were nothing special and I tried to forget they were there. I did this so I could get through each day without the painful reminder of who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me. I did this so I could live.

I knew the boxes were there, and I would go into the attic and check on the boxes…just to make sure the packing tape that held all the contents, all the filth and the same, was still secure, that nothing I was unable to face could escape. At times the tape would peal back, allowing the contents of the boxes to peak through the cracks, and I could see things so horrible I would be physically sick. The contents in the boxes would taunt me, beg me to look inside, to admit that they existed, and I would have to hurry and close the door to resist them. I resisted the temptation so I could live. So I could protect myself, and those I loved, from who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me.

I knew that eventually I would have to unpack those boxes, and put them away, where they belonged. And at times I tried to do it – but the contents were so rotten, so ***** and shameful, I couldn’t put them out for anyone to see. And I denied that they belonged to me. I denied them so I could live. So I could protect myself, and those I loved, from who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me.

Panic grew inside of me as the pain leaked out of the aged boxes, pain that was always there, but like the sound of my own heart beating, I no longer noticed it. It just was. And then the pain became overwhelming, loud and intrusive, I could hear screaming and crying, and noises that did not sound human , an animal in pain, I thought. I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears but the screaming didn’t stop. It would not stop. I could no longer deny them. I could no longer protect myself. I could no longer deny who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me.

Now, today, all these years later…these boxes that represent ME. And as I look around me, at the pain, and the shame, and the sadness, I not only see what these boxes held, I feel it…I hear it…I taste it…I breathe it. My vision is blurred from my tears…spilling over, some streaming down cheeks; others poised on the edges of my eyelashes, awaiting their turn to fall...right into the content of those boxes filled with my pain. Her pain. The pain of a little girl, abused and broken, unloved and unheard…

I can hear her screaming and crying. I can feel her pain…it is real. And I can feel it, and I can hear it, and I can taste it…I breathe it.

And I can no longer deny who I used to be, what I used to be, what he did to me.

There are things we keep in boxes like hearts and wounds and words

There are things we keep in boxes like feelings and failures and dreams

There are things we keep in boxes like what he should be and who she is

And I have told things to these boxes like I love you and I miss you and goodbye

See I hold things in these boxes filled with shame and trust and joy

And I have left things in these boxes like all those things about that boy

And even though they lay  in boxes most of them I can't forget

But there are worlds of me in these boxes soaked in tears and some regret

But I have packed these things in boxes and I have stacked these things in boxes

Because if I can pack these things in boxes I can keep them safe and secret

Because if I can stack these things in boxes they will keep me safe and secret

Yes, there are things like me in boxes

I met a man who sells boxes
Big boxes, small boxes,
dark boxes, boxes with a hole in the top.
right there on the street corner.
selling boxes to whomever he meets.
The man was sharp with a Colgate smile
and eyes that searched your pockets discretely.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,
especially you boys and girls,
toothy wink
Now is your chance,
don’t miss the opportunity.
These boxes sell faster than a free lunch at noon
100% certified to the industry standard
and they come complete with a lifetime guarantee!
I see you second guessing the decision sir.
Let me just tell you, I’ve lived without a box.
It’s not a pretty place to be.
The elements of this world are cruel
and you can’t get back what they take away.
I tell you what, I’m feeling generous today!
I’m declaring that for the next 2 hours
With any purchases of a full size box
I’ll include a child sized box for no additional fee!
But wait, there’s more!
You don’t want a box without a secure lid do you?
Act now and I’ll throw in our patented dual-use lock
Lockable from both the inside and out.
Yes, you ma’am, and one for your daughter as well?”

I watched in horror as the gathering crowd
meandered through his maze of assorted boxes
crouching down and stepping gingerly
inside each one that caught their eye.
Nothing like that new box smell.
Some looked for boxes with head room,
some felt safer with walls to their noses.
A father was helping his son
pull his dreams from a big yellow backpack
filing down the odd edges,
pruning the extrusions,
so they would fit neatly inside
calling his son’s tears the fruit of naiveté
speaking with a voice he assured himself was reason.
The shiny suited man approached me cautiously,
his salesman polish dimmed,
“Have we met?”
He asked with incredulity.
“It’s been about 20 years, I’m surprised you remember”
“Oh, I never forget a face,” he said.
“But what are you doing HERE?
Was there a problem with the box I gave you?
You know there’s a lifetime guarantee.”

“I met a man who collects boxes
in a waterproof warehouse
down at the bottom of the sea.
He knocked on my box and asked the simplest of questions
‘Would you be free?’
My eyes began swimming and my heart shook to its core
as I sadly admitted I had somehow lost the key.
‘Would you be free?’
He repeated, and I answered.
and at once the lid was lifted
and I was lifted
and I was free.
And he set straight the lies that others had told me
And asked if I would give him my fear
my pride, and all the other strings that tethered me to the box
I had sealed myself in for protection.
And then, of all things,
he whispered to me a poem
and it’s that poem that I am here to speak.”

To those who say I am not enough:
What box of yours did I not check today?
For that is what you seem to be curating with your life
Empty boxes
Except for those tenderly placed checks that don't even come close to filling those boxes up
I do not want your empty boxes
There is enough emptiness in the world without you forcing yours on others
In my life, I want to curate boxes full of love,
Of hope
Of tenderness,
Of acceptance
Of inclusion,
Of forgiveness,
Of unconditional, raw, fulfilling purpose and everything-ness,
That everyone should find at least once.
For it is when these boxes are full of the good and true things of life,
That they become gifts.
And it is these gifts that should be given to one another,
Not these empty boxes with the ghosts of your disappointed expectations
That I will never be able to check and satisfy you,
Or bring happiness to you.
So I do not care I am not enough to you,
That I fail at checking your empty boxes.
Because here I am,
Bearing my giftboxes that I have tried so desperately to fill,
Hoping that you become brave enough to open them and find
You are more than enough,
And you can leave the shackles of your empty boxes and checks behind.

People always try to put things into boxes
they want to put people in boxes
all of the boxes have labels
The boxes limit the things the people are able
to do
Like saying your black that is to white for you
or even your son is to young to learn how to tie his own shoes
all of these boxes
that have been carried from generation to generation
they of names and criminal in the makin
but I want to tell you that these boxes are mistaken
you see people put things in boxes
because they dont want to see what happens when they come out
they are to scared to think outside the box
and let how they really feel out
so they use extra tape to try to keep them close
the tape of steryotypes and bullying
and even calling people cold
they try to keep us in because they dont want our stories to be told
well i am stepping out of my box
breaking the tape
doing things the boxes say werent meant for me
I am going to break my box and for once in my life feel free
I will leave my boxes behind me

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky tacky,
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses
All went to the university,
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same,
And there's doctors and lawyers,
And business executives,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf course
And drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children
And the children go to school,
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university,
Where they are put in boxes
And they come out all the same.

And the boys go into business
And marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

Every time,
I move to a new place,
We get so many boxes.

One box,
One year.
Two boxes,
Two years.

My sisters and I,
We would build cool forts.
Huge mazes.
To hide the sadness.

One box,
One year.
Two boxes,
Two years.

This house though,
The one I live in now,
We used so many boxes..
Maybe?

Three boxes..
Three years?
Four boxes..
Four years?

I'm so happy here,
I dont want to leave.
My whole life is here,
I just can't leave.

One box,
One year.
Two boxes,
*Two years.