Growing pains;
I had this box, full of things. Things that didn't fit. Things that weren't forgotten, because they weren't ever there to forget. Things that were passed over, like a Jesus watch or a broken can opener or a dried, cranberry colored petal or a brisk fall evening where everything is calm. Into the box I dove headfirst, and I made things from all that paraphernalia, all those bits of costume jewellery and clay elephants and half-finished crossword puzzles.
And tea leaves.
I made first feet, and then a body to be carried upon them. I made it to sturdy, so I could lean into it and dissolve myself in its strength and capacity to endure. Bits of drywall and paper mache and leaf veins. Hedgehog quills and cassettes and sticky nail polish. Pencil crayons.
Cornflakes.
Slowly, I used up everything in my box. There was nothing left.
Now I fit inside my box, and you are standing sturdy outside.
I am a turtle, too small and too large simultaneously for my shell. And as comfortable as I am, I'm not moving and know that as long as I am in my box, I don't think I can. But my box needs to be filled, and if I leave, I will need to break down my statue, and leave it for another to build up. And they might do it all wrong.
I can't do this on my own.
Give me something to sing about.
I'm bad at being alone.
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