"fragile" that's me,
sitting in my box,
stamped
through the thin cardboard walls
I hear, but cannot see,
I can hear my parents whispers
about me
their problem child.
The one who turned out wrong
and had to be boxed up.
Whenever I poke my head out from the box
I see it, in their eyes
and I know it, in my heart, but
I also know that this box,
this box is not my home.
This box, with its hypnotically white walls,
and its intoxicating smell of sawdust.
Though my parents tell me otherwise
saying "stay in your box,
it's safer."
but I know
that I am not.
Not fragile. And
I don't need to be
handled with care.
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