I ate you for breakfast.
I regurgitated on pieces of you at mid morning and I attempted to eat you again at lunch time.
Last night, closer to midnight and too many hours awake from a new perspective, I heard you gurgling and bubbling within my gut and I tried to make you quiet but it’s so empty in there except for you and the knots and the things you call mistakes and my indelible choices.
I haven’t been eating well.
You bounce around inside of me like a small rubber ball in a large cardboard box; sometimes rolling into corners and settling.
Yesterday, I rotated myself into ridiculous angles and I twisted and turned again; upside down, inside out and backwards.
I could feel you rattling around inside of me.
This box that I am, with its dented edges and fraying lid, has been opened and closed so many times. This carton has carried much and I’ve wanted to keep you hidden within it.
There are breathing holes for you and we poke and peek and try to communicate through the smallest of spaces.
Are you having difficulty breathing? I am.
I want to unfold myself and lay flat underneath a pile of nothing remotely similar.
I need to be recycled.
This box should be flattened and danced on by the feet of someone stomping; though not you.
No wrapping paper, no bows, no anything – just a silly plain brown cardboard box sitting in the corner of everything that I am with a ricochet within.
I am leaving now, unfolding and changing shape and I’m not certain where I am headed, though change is needed.
I will spit myself from this paper-shredder-called-life-right-now and there will be no stopping it. I will become long shredded pieces of paper with bits of words mixed up and making less sense though pleasing everyone else and I will start again.
Like compost, I will rejuvenate a garden of tomorrow and something new will grow.
This will be another yesterday.
This box will no longer exist as it does today.
You will roll away.