She lives in a box
tied up
and packed away
under my bed

she only comes out on holidays
and rainy days
when the weather is just right
or late at night

i'm always drinking
i'm always drunk
i cant hold my hands together
and i cant keep my brain
from
attempting to figure itself out

but with thought comes
distinction
with hurt comes
mistakes and
when the time comes around
again
to lift her up and out

I find her dusty
aged
just plain staged
I find her
bent on the corners
and printed
discolored
and tinted
from the tears
and the years
when all of our fears
and the distance
held us apart.