She waits in her box, where the silence is thick, counting her thoughts till they splinter and stick. She sits in her box where the corners don't bend, counting the walls like carousel friends. The ceiling, she swears, is whispering sums, four plus four equals six, and six equals none. She hums to herself in a voice paper thin, a lullaby cracking like glass from within. Her fingernails tap out a drumline of dust, declaring the wallpaper unworthy of trust. It's tragic, perhaps, or it's merelv absurd, depending on whether you giggle or hurt.

Her laughter breaks open, a wound dressed in sound, yet falls into quiet that poisons the ground. She laughs at her laughter for laughing too loud, and bows to an audience that hides in a shroud. The walls are her witness, her madness, her shrine, so she scratches her name in the plaster and grime. She bargains with echoes that answer too late, they say that her words are a lock sealing fate. Is this madness, or mercy, or both intertwined? This box holds the secret she can't leave behind!

Her box is too pink, she decides with a siah, too dark, too bright too much lullaby. Her eyes ache from kindness, her smile feels wrong, why does the pink keep insisting, she sings along? She touches the wall and it blushes again, this bubble gum echo that's thicker than sin

She whispers I love you, but sounds insincere, as if love's going rotten from staying too near. The color consumes her, her voice, her skin. she's swallowed by the comfort she's painted within. So the light hums bubble gum song's through the air, and she's nearly convinced it's bleaching her hair.

She claps for the ceiling and applauds the floor, then thanks every hue for existing once more! And when the pink finally whispers, you're one of us too, she smiles so wide, because maybe it's true!

She swears the corners have melted, and the floor gently sways, and everything glitters in frosting and haze. She licks at the air, it tastes like delight, or madness disguised in marshmallow light. She laughs till the laughter folds in on itself, till the pink starts feeling more like her hell.

Her heartbeat's a bubble, her words, too sweet, her mind skips rope while the color repeats. It tells her she's lovely, it tells her she's safe, then paints over the silence to hide while she shakes. The pink is her safety, her prison, her friend, and promises comfort that always comes to an end!

The walls are too colorful today. she hates that

..when she isn't looking, they speak about things she said, then freeze like saints when she snaps her head.

She knows they lie, every shade of them.. pink pretending innocence, vellow pretending friends.. the whole box glows with colors she can't trust, while the ceiling and floor spin emotion and lust.

Funny.. her box is too dark to see with her eves, her truths, her screams, al her quieter lies... but the darkness hides them like debts unpaid, trading her peace for her promise to stay.

Her sanity, her dreams. her feelings inside, all given up willingly, just to survive. He dignity stripped like color to stain, hoping for breath long enough, just to be seen.

At the end of it all, she breaks down and cries, because its better to feel it then to lay down and die.. and mavbe right now, iust for today, she can stand up and be whole, and not run away.

Her mural begins with a flourish, then stops, a rainbow cut short in embarrassing drops. The wall looks amused, with a smirk in its stone, mocking the artist who can't make it known.

She rattles the can, empty and thin, a hollow confession of nothing within Her thoughts are still burning, her hands want to speak, but the paint won't arrive, the can sprung a leak!

She sighs like a queen, stripped of her crown, then kicks the dead can as it rattles around. The can rolls aside, with a clatter it sneers, a crown for a failure, a drumbeat of fear. And so she sits quiet, with nothing to do, just waiting, still waiting, in her box like she knew.