They say a cat waits in a box,
alive and dead
until someone dares to look.

I know that cat.
I’ve worn its skin,
breathed both life and ending
in the same trembling second.

Every truth I open
kills another illusion.
Every lie I keep
lets another ghost breathe.

The box isn’t in the lab —
it’s in the chest.
It hums behind the ribs,
a purr, a bomb, a prayer.

We all sit there,
half dream, half dust,
waiting for the moment
we finally look,
and become
whatever survives the sight.

—Vazago