I have a wooden box <br />Under my bed. <br />It’s hand crafted and carved <br />And inlaid with gold <br />And full to the brim <br />With the insults <br />You brought me <br />Over the years. <br /> <br />I take them out occasionally <br />And try them on for size. <br />They don’t fit of course, <br />They never did. <br />Either hanging loose <br />Over my deceptively slight frame. <br />Or ridiculously small, <br />Laughable in their tightness. <br /> <br />Most are cheap, mass produced, <br />Run of the mill rags, <br />The sort you see in any <br />Bad relationship. <br />Others are Haute couture: <br />Conceived, designed, constructed, <br />Exclusively for me <br />But still not right: <br /> <br />Sometimes, <br />Inexplicably, <br />I convince myself <br />They are a perfect fit. <br />Only time spent gazing <br />Into the mirror of honesty <br />Brings me back to the truth, <br />It is merely in your distorted vision <br />That the scorn and ridicule suit me. <br /> <br />One day soon <br />I will burn my box <br />And it’s precious contents. <br />Not today, not tomorrow <br />And probably not next week <br />But soon. <br />Soon <br />I will toss it all <br />Into the fiery Gehenna <br />Along with <br />My memories <br />Of you.<br /><br />Sallie Howson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-box-under-my-bed/
