The box is locked,

It is bolted from the inside,

Buried in the darkest corner of my garden,

Under the shadows of the conifer trees,

Where nobody can see that the soil has been disturbed,


The tempest thrashes from within,

Violently rocking my fragile, handmade boat,

Sending waves of fear through my waters,

Shortening my breath, tightening my eyes, shrinking my lungs,

Pummelling my head and threatening to drown me,


The box is heavy on my back,

I am exhausted from its weight,

Carrying it alone in the jungle now,

Uphill, no shoes, wet hands,

I slip as I climb,

I am a mess,

A sound escapes from my lips,

Neither a sigh nor a cry,

But still, I climb,

Heavier is the box, thicker are the trees,

Shorter is my breath,

But still, I climb.