Boxes

I feel trapped within a box

one of my own construction 

as I punch and struggle to break free

and once successful am confronted with two more, in its place.

Forced to choose 

confined 

confused, 

afraid 

to play these games of introspection 

intervention 

disconnection, 

so instead, I sort my thoughts in nice, neat bins 

and corrugated crates,

careful never to color outside the lines, 

or paint myself into a corner, 

though I’m starting to wonder if I’m meant to be 

stuck inside or outside the box, 

like some prodigal package lost 

on a never-ending assembly line.

Some days, I just want to jump off the grid.

From the day I was born, 

I was torn from the womb and tossed into a bubble, 

faced with endless rigid boxes -

the dutiful daughter, diligent student, 

colleague, commuter, blushing bride, mother

of invention. Sometimes the grid puts me in a messy, mislabeled box I clearly don’t belong in.

I break through the nebulous moonlit sky, 

embrace parcels of darkness, wait for the sun, 

once I realize life is spent 

unwrapping boxes and unpacking stars

into neat, deletable, disposable jars.