I left the lid to Pandora’s box unhinged, so
that I might see some of the light filter down
And feel the warmth of sun-rays in-between.
Sometimes the tales that we never look for
Become the stories that we have always told:
Histories scratched into our beating hearts.
She’s fragile, nervous, petrified in layered ice
The crystal knight moves to fish her from the
gloom. A brave gesture, it may seem so.
She won’t struggle, stricken limp with purity
You’ll wring her dry, smooth out angel wings
And entrap her to your breast’s eternal tomb.
Pull back the petals, tear them from their roots
And stamp them into your precious collection
The delicate flower vignette, now preserved.
You admire these tireless tomes in your mind,
The mental shelf of your fortune so wealthy, weighted;
it’s a wonder that you do not cower and break.
You keep a treasure trove of glistening corpses,
still warm with the breath of roses that you stole,
and a-fixed so cleanly to your worn secret map.
But sometimes I spit fire, to keep myself warm.
I will maim you, I will mark you and I will cut you:
To sculpt beauty from the ashes of your flaws.
So tell me: when will you stop listening to me?
And teach me where you were taught to stare
In all emptiness, without the light of a soul.