Little Boxes


There is no human “norm”

Black ink writing forget-me-not notes on your skin,

You’ll hear future melodies

Where people dance euphorically exhausted

Dousing pale cheeks with spirit heated

Tears. They’ll tell you not to taste them

You might become something

Not so “normal”

Twisting you into monosyllabic

“Weird,” “Strange,” and “Odd” boxes

No soul could fit inside undivided

And sadly, I don’t remember long division well

But I know boxes hold objects, not humans

Singing stars into the sky, you dream Milky Way galaxies

Beyond caramel centers, you

Are honeycomb, not to be encased

Whole, sweet tea afternoons no box could hold

Geometry has no “You” algorithm,

Hopelessly and hopefully you-nique

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