The Box

The box.
It smells of excrement
It cries of horrors
Curled up
Scrunched up
A child she never was.

Sure she tried not to sin
But in the process
She ended up doing nothing
Fear
Fear
Fear

She wanted to dance, all her life.
But every time she heard a song
She was paralysed
She didn't want to dance
To the oracles of evil
So she ended up never dancing at all.

It must be wrong
That she never smiled
It must be wrong
That she held the weight of the world

It must be wrong
That whatever she did
She was wrong
It must be wrong
Something is wrong.

She hears the screams
But her own screams are too loud
They drown out the others
Narcissism creeps in
And she just wants to be broken
And held together

She has tried to be okay
She had tried to be kind
But the boldness that was simple
For the multitudes
Never reached her
She who was never a child
Never truly grew up.

She was told to believe
That the box wasn't there
That someone carried her our
Cleaned her up

But it seems like just another box
Darker than before
Because before,
There were puddles of self-pity
To wallow in
But now
No more
And the full blame was on her shoulders.

"I will still gaze.
I will not stop
Cause I know that the box
Is a mist
That there are eyes of fire
Waiting for me."