Boxes

[EmilyJune519]

I:
My lives are hidden under coats of paint,
baby pink covered by graffiti,
which was usurped by brown.
Photos and memories aren’t enough for me.
I hoard things like red, white, and blue
confetti from Al Gore’s speech,
receipts from In’n’Out, and leaves shaped like hearts.
In the far left of my closet,
a clear, unimaginative, sturdy box
holds plane tickets to Ireland
and letters from an ex’s mom.
Six years condensed into one box.
His stories about the wolves
and poems with titles like
“My Soul’s Heartbeat” and “My Better Tomorrow.”
I kissed him one morning,
ten hours after my mouth
was on another man’s cock.
Yet I still cried when I said
I’m not in love with you anymore,
and when I drove him
out of my life to the airport.
II:
In this same room,
with the brown walls and wood floors,
I’m trying to hold onto sand,
in love with a Teumessian Fox
who first held my hand on sidewalks
in Denver and played with my straightened
hair in line at Calvin Klein.
I bought two bras and four panties,
and I keep the pair he tore off
with our museum and movie stubs,
and the flowers he stopped the car
so I could run and grab
in a solid, stylish red box
purchased at a specialty store.
When he curls into me,
his head on my chest,
legs and arms wrapped around me
like a silk pashmina,
I feel like I’m cradling the world.
I want to go into his past
and hold him as a child
so he knows he’s rare and worthy and loved.