Boxed

She is too living a parcel to be packed up and stowed away in the corner. That kind of treatment is left for broken toys and old ladies. Not yet.

There is a sincerity to her walls; no one but herself put them there, and now she defies them, scraping her fingers, flesh to cardboard. She is not plastic.



She screams and writhes and cries out, pushes and cranks.

It's time to wake up; It's time for bed.

Enough.

Where is the girl with the smile? Her return is overdue. Look, for outside, the world lives. Spring alights gently, softly, casting a green cloak about the snow. There is no such thing as plastic.