Floral Box

If I could draw you a picture of my anxiety, it would be a beautiful 12 year old depiction of a one dimension box on white printer paper. Not a masterpiece, but made of carefully drawn with a ruler straight lines. Not drawn to scale so the real size would vary depending on the angle and the person viewing. The box would be filled with flowers drawn to be elegant and beautiful, yet they still look unsymmetrical. It’d be hanging on the fridge ten years later as a sore and scary reminder of the artist I thought I was. The slight imperfections I’d noticed in my work of art would now be much more bluntly standing out. And the paper covered in shoe prints from falling off of the inwardly frozen gallery wall and being stepped on, but placed back up every time. But every now and then the one dimensional box sings out like a music box, reminding me of the hope I once had and causing me to cling to it like it’s the only thing left. Because it is. 

This poem is about: 
Me

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