Dark places

That box in the back of the closet. It can contain everything I want, until I actually look inside. Like the darkness trapped within every black hole. A long tunnel for random trains to whistle through. I think I understand this detour. The destination little more than a combination of chemicals and circumstance.

The walls I write on used to be thinner, but it really makes no difference. The rush of air through desperate lungs is just as loud. To be close is never near enough. Hands cover my eyes so I can pretend that everything ending will begin again.

Questions pounding like heavy rubber mallets. I paused to let the doorway catch up, but it wasn’t where I wanted to go. Too frightened to be where I really belong. Back inside that closet, I peer inside the box and find it empty.