There’s a small cardboard box in my brain: a special one,
where I can forget everything I put in there, so it doesn’t
kill me from the inside. It works beautifully and holds all of
the woes I want badly enough to hide from myself. I can live from
day to day without fear of my self-manufactured toxins. There is
one problem, though, which lays in its integrity; it is made but
out of cardboard. My secrets and fears are a dense fluid, making
the cardboard sag at its middle and darken with saturation, and
sometimes it trickles out in a small stream from the box’s
open corner if I don’t pay attention. It leaves scars on
the floor that burn my eyes, but I daren’t more than
whimper. I will save that for when I slip under its brown flaps
one secret too many and its entire structure collapses, leaving
me to just brace myself for the corrosion of all I could never
stand to face.