It is dark,
it is lonely
in this box.

There’s a candle
in the middle,
in this box.

Here, a table,
there, a bed,
to sit, to lie.

The box was small—
growing smaller
and smaller.

The candle melted
to its stump—
wick burnt to ash.

My home, my prison,
my coffin,
my box.

The fierce joy
that was
present in the past
that drove me here,
that made me fight
for the happiness
that I always wanted,
disappeared through
cracks and crevices—
anguish
bore into me.
They felt like
great depths
I was
too scared
to scale.
So I sit,
and endure
the tiny cracks
that spread
through everything,
one day meeting each other
and destroy me.