deep into
my chest

big box
of love

made of
glass and stars

Written on it

see
through me
feel
through me

but don't use me

The day after my childhood self wouldn't leave the old house and cupboards, I sat in the dark with my boxes and these pretend grown-up versions of myself.
I'm losing my favourite memory, I cant find the right side of paper but I will always flip the page. I know I am stuck. Still seeing the image of your skirts disappearing around old pine door frames, try to run after the hem to ask you where I left the right box. Can't even find the words to ask.
Sometimes the last thing we ever get to say is “goodbye, old house”, we don't always get a chance to kiss it on the cheek before we leave.
That nothing we lost once was inside you the whole time.
I remember the private hospital rooms, we know that for that much money you have to switch of the part of you that won't stop dying.
You still visit.
You still visit in the form of robins following me home, of ghosts enclosed whispering in a space reserved,
breath suspended in mid air,
the very last one.
I made a room of ghosts for you.
And if I could have stopped time
I would have paused it in the middle of this room.

Open the yellow memory box one last time.

Ancestral riches
In ancient jewelbox,night,
No one would swindle!

Mom says
I should call it what it is.
A scarf, cologne,
A movie ticket.
But instead
I boxed up our first date.
And burned it.

I'm a little
-
scared

To open up that
box

That desire
A never dulling     -
fire

How to keep it-
at bay

The desire to       excel      exceed        
Ambition

A calm,
avoidance
denial
SO
   Much
         easier
But,
Should           I
Open this





Pandora's
        box?

The thoughts of suicide riddle my brain,
They're around all corners of every word I say.
Every thought I think or memory I look back,
The symbiote of suicide leaks out of every crack.

Writing and romanticising all my bad habits isn't smart,
But it's the sacrifice I make to make sacrificial art.
There's beauty in trapping myself in a box of sadness and doubt,
Walls made of paper; so maybe I can write myself out.

As unhealthy and sordid as it may be,
I find self-solitary to bring out the best in me.
As unstable and morbid as it may seem,
I find thoughts of suicide to bring out the best in me.

I'm glad I was too big for your box of lies.
I'm glad I didn't fit in.
Hopefully I don't shrink so you
don't shove me inside.

In the world of lines and curves,
I was questioned at the doorstep,
"Are you a line or a curve?",
I decided I was a curve, and they let me in in the group of curves.
Somebody asked, "Why is your curve not curvier? You must go to the lines instead."
I said, "Fair enough", and moved over to the group of lines.
Somebody said again, "You are too crooked to be a line. Go away!"
Disappointed, I realized I had nowhere to go.
There was no group for me. I was a curvy, crooked line.
I was a "******".

Then,
Along came a curve, and a line,
They were curious of what it would mean to push their boundaries.
So I asked them to hold hands.
And suddenly I realized I was not alone.
I held their hands too, and we were transformed,
We wriggled and jiggled, and broke our molds,
And formed a perfect circle.
From our imperfections.
Now I belonged somewhere.
And I am not a "******" anymore.

I don’t understand why I can’t keep it hidden
It’s so clear it’s so obvious
that what you hide
isn’t truly kept hidden
But you place it in a glass box
pretending as if no one can see
Everyone sees
but everyone says nothing
because nothing is better than everything
because everything is what you hide
and sometimes
I wish
I were
everything