I did not foresee to learn building boxes—
one for my delicate flowers,
another for the paper dolls
Trapping them as if my soul did not have inner voice;
locking them in as if the demon did not pierce my insides.
I did not foresee to learn building boxes—
one for a pearl,
another for my dazzling unicorn
A sharp knife was not worthy to be locked up,
For it was the rage I entailed when my temple got broken.
I did not foresee to learn building boxes—
one for my white lilies,
another for a monthly alien
Perhaps this poor heart was never on the brink of acceptance,
I have abandoned my better angels before they soared away.
They were a home, a chain to my pith and wrecked flowers
What was more obscene than a very young but damaged lily?
Grievous affairs were the culprits,
I reckoned,
Not that I did not whimper dispatching my sprouting fruit.
I did not foresee to learn building boxes—
one for my stained heart,
another for a terrible mind
Pangs of conscience rotted through time—
coveting to redeem the angels back and sense home now.
Fascination of my own sin ran down my pale skin,
How did a pair of tiny arms and ceased heartbeat behoove an actual home?
My fragile womb was drained and it thumped me to ashes,
How did I feel so heavy and burdened out of emptiness?
I did not foresee to learn building a poignant little box—
one for a forsaken gift of life
Except that it was quite narrow and I pigmented it silver—
chained with remorse and sorrow once it was sent underneath.
Hence I foresaw to acquire building another silver box—
one for my repentant lily
Except that this was the last—
The last box I crafted to join her little heart underneath.