I'm still drawing boxes for you to play with
'cause our hands have different intentions—
mine on the pen, yours on each corner—
but I'm hoping one day you'll stay true to your word and lock me in.
My hands are bleeding blue ink from these puncture wounds,
like hornets pointing poison towards my fingertips
while the antidote bubbles from your dried, cracked lips:
as if a bohemian harlot's tube of chap stick
could heal wounds seared between her hips.
Will this box burn when I light each corner with a dying pen
and will it hurt when you grab it from my page
and hold my work in your hands like a martyr with scarred wrists?
I breathe a little harder with each step towards a white nothingness
as boxes with more dimensions than we shared fill the emptiness with substance;
yet these boxes are empty and so am I,
a white page full of blue ink with no words to define the story of my life,
but just empty boxes for you to play with when your hands deceive me right.