Boxes

Boxes of bones and cartilage holding everything I have ever owned. They’re never emptied, and my belongings have now calcified. Yet I spend my nights looking through them, at everything that helped shape me. But before I can dismember it and dig one of my many hearts out, someone calls my name and I snap back to reality. I have to leave soon anyway.

Another box is packed, freshly harvested organs grasping for air as I bury them beneath a mountain of polaroids and flowers. I close it with a bleeding sigil, and as my body patches it self up, strings of seconds sewing my skin shut, I have already forgotten the contents of the box. New memories bloom as I leave and load it into my car.