Boxed

Since I was little I’ve been in a box.

Any box I could find: refrigerator boxes, shoeboxes, moving boxes.

Since before I was born I’ve been in a box.

God’s brain, my mother’s womb.

I’ve been watching faces intently,

Studying people and their dispositions, their body

language, their facial expressions,

Things we identify as “tells” or insights

Into people’s character,

The type of person she is,

His outlook,

Her ambitions,

His attitude,

Her livelihood,

His political affiliation,

Her views on sex,

His dreams,

Her dreams,

Their realities.

Study the faces, then talk to them.

Read their lips, listen to their words, learn their truths.

Judge her. Judge him. Judge them.

Know them.

Want them, hate them, crush them, love them,

curse them, fuck them,

Be them.

Now, I am in a box. I’m in lots of

Boxes.

I’m in the box where they tell me I can’t.

I’m in the box where they tell me I can and I should.

I’m in the box on my camera phone,

measuring me out and making me look good.

I’m in the box called my home, my car, my brain.

I’m a woman.

I’m a reader.

I’m a sympathizer, empathizer, believer.

Magnifier. I’m a lens.

I’m an eclipse.

I’m a bitch.

I’m black.

I’m white.

I’m hard. I’m soft. I’m kind. I’m important.

I’m hard working. I’m driven.

I’m lazy. I’m clean. I’m

Dirty.

I’m an ex girlfriend, a sister, a daughter.

I’m a laugher and a crier.

I’m a sneezer. I admire.

I play. I joke. I am

Strong.

I’m a lover. I fight.

I always think I’m right.

I scream. I yell. I curse,

Fuck you, go to hell.

I choke on my tears,

I vomit up fears.

But you could never tell; just

By watching my face on a crowded street,

You wouldn’t know I am defeated.

You wouldn’t know I am mistreated

By myself.

You might not guess I spend some mornings

waking up and wishing I hadn’t.

You might not guess that I confessed

My hatred and my sadness.

I look into the mirror

And smile,

And I think to myself

Maybe I’ll be happy for a while

And my vision gets clearer,

But you might not know that’s me.

I am high and low,

Hot and cold,

Fast and slow,

Fitting the mold.

But not.

Fire and ice,

Vicious and nice,

Blunt and feisty.

I am a rebel.

I am a conformist.

I am a child of wild,

A slave to the trials

Of this life.

The wind in my hair, sounds and

Lights and color everywhere.

Senses overloaded,

Reason left behind.

I am an amalgamation of truth

And envy and pride and lies and

My worst enemy is my mind.

And greatness.

I am magic.

I am special.

I am enchanting and beautiful and

A crazy good time.

Come with me down the rabbit hole,

Or up into the sky.

I am even a box myself.

Housing all the things that make me up,

Like made up images of imaginary stuff.

Thoughts and love and trust, if

A little broken.

And maybe a little

Hope and

Tragedy.

The ticking clocks and racing thoughts.

You wouldn’t know what’s on my mind

Just by looking at my rind.

My face is not a telling sign.

Sometimes it is ecstatic,

Sometimes it is erratic.

Sometimes it is blind.

You wouldn’t know a single thing

That’s going on inside.

I’m stealthy like the fox is,

In all my little boxes.