That Crunch

When someone places you in a box,
It's like that person twists your arm
In that burning way that you did
As a kid.

There's that space where you
Inflict pain on someone until yelps and cries
Come to end your test.

Then, that person looks at the wring marks on his or her arm.
The sensation deafens the limb.

So that's what that box is like.
Man, it's when they throw out the labels.
You get sliced up with a box cutter,
But the wounds heal?

Maybe you don't get sliced but your mouth is taped up and you can't shout
"I'm really not like that." Or "No, you are mistaken my friend."
But, you're in a box!

Sometimes that person doing the labeling actually gets it right.
You give them kudos.
You're not submissive, not defensive, not trying to kill the moment.

You smile or giggle maybe when the flaps go over your head.
Sunlight or light from a desk lamp is like the hole made from
A Bic pen.

You can only hear the permanent Sharpie spitting and whispering
On your box.

You have the inside on lock,
And no one can take that away from you.

You are essentially a fetus.
I mean that curl, that bunch, that crunch of
You.