I use to tell my mother, that you and I go together like little children and cardboard boxes.
Imagination meeting creativity and a will to make the most out of any circumstance.
I use to tell my mother that if the world offered us cardboard, we will give them castles; a fortress for every cube, a kingdom for every cuboid.
My mother said, it’s because I love boxes.
She told me that from the time I was waist high, I had a thing for spaces I can never fit into and places I didn’t belong.
Like those beloved boxes, or the wrong circles, or hearts made of cardboard.
So tell me now; what is the shape of your heart?
What sort of material is it made from?
How do I begin to fit my supposedly unwanted self into this dense vacuum?
I know that sometimes, I can be a bit stubborn; unable to bend and break at the expectation of something I cannot live up to, but how come I can never be packaged within your soul?
Ain't I precious enough to be carried as I am?
How come you can never wrap your mind around all of my fullness?
Close the lids of your contentment around me?
How come you can never contort your heart just a bit to take on the shape of my fragility with some bubble wrapped consideration?
Ain't I malleable enough?
Ain't I clay on a potter's wheel hoping to be moulded into a thing of beauty?
Maybe I wasn't ready-made enough for you.
Ain't I years of commitment and sacrifice; and mother's words saying that you don't deserve a spirit like mine?
Ain't I a good actor?
Don't I smile when I should be crying?
How come these private tears couldn't make soggy your cardboard heart with sympathy?
Is your heart made from something waterproof?
Is that the reason why I am the only one who goes under during this flood?
I am drowning while your boxed heart just stays there - floating.
I go under knowing that I can never climb in no matter how hard I tried.
Ain't I twelve years a slave to your pride, being whipped black and blue from the absence of your sorry's?
Ain't I the product of too many sorry's?
How come you ain't ever sorry?
How come you always sorry?
How come I always end up feeling like a sorry excuse after all of your sorry excuses?
Every night, I leave puzzle pieces of my love at your bedside in hopes that you'd one day build the portrait; get to see the whole picture although I came to you in jigsaw.
But I've come to realize that it's futile.
That without the effort of imagination and a little creativity, a box will always be, just a box.
So maybe mother was right.
Maybe I do have a thing for spaces I can never fit into and places I don't belong.
Or maybe she was wrong.
Maybe I was just too much fire for you to quench.
Too much passion for your cardboard heart to hold.
Too much warm embrace for your bosom.
Whatever it may be, know that my peace is no longer yours to take.
Know that love is too wild to be boxed in anyways.
- Omavi Langevine 2017 #TheCanvasPoet