My Safe Place, My Prison.

I grew up in a box.

Sometimes it was big enough to stretch my legs, other times it was so small I couldn’t breathe.

I grew up in a box.

The box was never empty and so I was never alone. But if I have to be honest, I was always lonely.

I grew up in a box.

I began to wear glasses because I couldn’t see outside. Turns out there just weren’t any windows.

I grew up in a box.

Most times, it felt like a prison. I was serving time for my crime. The crime of being born.

I am in a box.

I think I have an unstable case of Stockholm syndrome. Why? Well on most days, I feel love for my inmates and the prison guard.

I am in a box.

These days it’s hard to control my anger. I feel like lashing out but no. I’m better than that.

I am in a box.

I have multiple voices in my head and it’s hard to keep them in check. The guard and inmates think I’m acting out.

I left the box.

I have been given the greatest gift ever; the gift of the outdoors.

I left the box.

I never knew that air could be so clean and fresh. Oh how I wish I could stay here forever.

I left the box.

The guard and inmates keep calling. They want me back in the box but all they’re doing is shouting and screaming.

I left the box.

It hasn’t been long enough but I have to go back now. The box calls for me. I guess I also miss the box.

I am in a box.

Once I get in, the stale air slaps me across the face … and so does the guard.

I grew up in a box.

I guess I shouldn’t call it a box. Maybe you’d understand me better if I called it “Home”.