We live in boxes, work in boxes, and drive in boxes.

We’ve survived in this world so long that we ourselves have become square.

Unmoving and stagnant, with four clear cut sides, no more no less;

no momentum to move us, or curves to keep us rolling we sit,

brick by brick, with no changes.

Despite how well painted it may seem, a brick is still a brick,

making a house with no windows.

I’m tired of boxes, not only the ones in the world, but the boxes in myself.

They have sat, rooted for so long, so closely meshed, without light or curve.

I’ve allowed these boxes to trap me, I may have not built the foundation, but I gave this box its walls.

Out of apathy, I let it settle one by one,  square by square

and I sit, unmoving, making myself the victim of my own indifference.

But even indifference itself is a box,

except it’s without mass or volume,

only hollow, because I haven’t even had the strength to fill it.

How terrifying that something so empty, could take up so much space.

By Nicole Dominguez





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