Cardboard

The darkness envelops the lonely house,
you pack the ones you love in boxes – cellophane
and bubble-wrap will keep them safe. But the sun
won't shine through cardboard walls and you hear
them thrash against plastic and paper. They must
survive the dark – you play sad spirals of music to
drown the sounds of escape. The sounds diminish
as the moon takes the sky; the packing tape coffins
fall silent as you sleep – and all that's left of what
you love is gone but you find it hard to care. Sensual
fingers puncture your skin and embrace your ribcage -
the signals inflate your spine and then your brain explodes.
The daffodils on the nightstand must mean he cares, the
pictures foxtrot across social media wires but surely all
your social media friends won't hold it against you – you
stood there in love as they burned. The once beloved occupants
of cardboard boxes are forgotten as the sun rises on semen-stained
coat hangers and dehydrated skin. Well, at least you have the shame,
and the imagination to invent the name of who punctuated the grief.
There's no doubt you'll replace him when the moon returns again.
There's no doubt in your mind that the violence only deters the weak.
What life you've made is washed away by rain.