Stitch This

A box can be a haven
A shelter
A home.
But also it captures the spirit
The wisps of self
Collected in a pool.
They should fly free,
Be able to stand up for themselves. But sometimes they fall.
Hard.
Then the box welcomes.
Then the box sighs.
You could crawl inside and hide,
Licking stoney wounds.
But then you wouldn’t see the label
The label on the side
The tag, the name, the slot
The first thought when they think of you.
You couldn’t redirect the box,
You couldn’t relabel.
You couldn’t decide that you are still able.
You couldn’t do anything in that damn box
So I’m staying out here
In the cold and the rain.
I’m not getting in that box again.