I Put You In This Box

by Arianna Giorgio

The first thing to occur was the second longest silence ever recorded in human history.
What could I say to something like that?
What could I say to someone telling me that God had decided I wasn’t worth it anymore?
I put you in this box.
I put you in this box so you can’t hurt me.
You are contained and therefore are no longer a contaminate to my soul.
This box makes you nameless, strips you of all recognition.
Finally, people won’t stare at me because of the physical scars you’ve left.
The scars carved into my back with a blade so hateful my heart attacked itself.
The scars on my face from the tears you ate on your way up to devouring my brain.
The scars on my shaved head from you ripping out my hair one toxic chemical at a time.
Now, people will only stare at your box; at its decadently decorated exterior;
like a gardenia drenched in liquid twilight waiting to drip dry.
They will remark at its beauty, not knowing that what’s inside it is as deadly as the corner of sin’s attic.
No skull or crossbones will be painted on your box — you don’t deserve a title or a warning.
This is my box and I already know the power you contain.
I learned a little too late to close my eyes when I look at you so as not to burn my mind blind from the inside out.
I will sing you to sleep in an attempt to calm your aggravated anarchy.
I will keep you.
I will keep you in this box so that you cannot hurt others.
People say you came to me because I needed strength.
So, thank you.
To a thing I’m supposed to hate, “Thank you.”
Because sometimes the most hated things need to be loved so hard that the pressure cracks their sides, illuminates their consciousness and melts them into molten melancholy.
Dear cancer,
I put you in this box so that you could no longer define me.
I am a dance that licks the ocean with its toes.
I am a naked forest dipped in powdered sugar, illuminated by the moon.
The pieces of a daughter’s shattered heart the first time her mother throws her to the ground.

I am my best friend’s flaws without her courage to admit that they are mine.

I am the sister of inspiration, who is the brother of solitude.

I am misdirection in the mind of a mental patient.

I am a survivor.

And honestly cancer, I really don’t think you get a say in how I define myself anymore.

The last thing to occur was the longest silence ever recorded in human history.

The kind of silence that filled me with the realization that God didn’t have to decide if I was
worth it, because I already had.


Journal, Volume 2 Issue 11