BOX

FARAH RAFEE

she kept her self in a cardboard box. at ever y winter, ever y r ain, it would cave in on her, folding her bones, melting her limbs, and she would collapse inwards melodically, her sanity specks of the evening paper into one of thousands of faces that year ned to feel something, be something, but could not in fear of her self. she dissolved into the faded magazine clippings that were scattered and blanket the gaps between her and the wor ld outside the box. who she was and who she was not. she was not br ight nor kind nor glad. she was down and vile and hur t. the rekindling her ther apist once talked about seemed out of time , out of reach. but as i stretched my hand towards her, she seemed to see that perhaps it was not. it would be slow, but change would come .