Sandbox

This is just a box. You can­not come into this box. You can­not come into this box with me. I do not share this box. This box is mine. I will climb into this box. I am now climb­ing into this box. I will close the lid of this box. I am now clos­ing the lid of this box. I will pum­mel the walls of this box. I am now pum­mel­ling the card­board walls of this box with my pathetic fists. This box is mak­ing my knuckles bleed. This box may spat­ter with blood. I am bent double, curled up and foetal in this box. There is not a lot of room in this box. There is not a lot of room in this box because I am sit­ting in here with a large tick. In this small box, the tick is push­ing its harsh and aggrav­at­ing corners against my break­able spine. I am still in the box. I am still in the box but I am open­ing up, unfurl­ing, undo­ing. I will think myself out of the box. I am think­ing out of the box. I am now out of the box. I am crush­ing the box under my foot. I am stamp­ing on the box. I am stamp­ing on the box. I am beat­ing the box to a pulp with my bloody fists. I am killing the box. I am killing the box. I am stamp­ing on your head. I am beat­ing your head to a card­board pulp with my pathetic bloody fists. I am not killing you. I am not killing you. This is just a box. That was just a box. That was not you. Just a box. A box. Your head. A box.