it’s like being in a box

sealed on the outside.



but more than a box.

                                                                        I carved infinity into the walls



so I can stay here

                                                                        I call it a “passive prison.”



and do happy cartwheels—

                                                                        the room is only a three by eight.



it’s safety in loneliness

                                                                        but it’s still a box.




more than a box.



it’s a quiet memory on repeat—




it’s something that can be spoken to




and it understands.

but can it feel?



like an object that only exists in thought—

no that’s not right.



well sure it is.



but it’s exclusive to me.

like a keepsake.




like melatonin.



true I am blind.




checkered floors.

a game.



taking a loss

like a virus



and its host

that kills







stuck on the absence of—