The Box

The last part of my good is buried deep in a wooden box. It is closed, tightly shut, never to be opened again. It resides behind a combination of unopenable locks. Carefully hidden, like a lie full of shame. Forgotten by the world, tucked away in a corner, But she is mine to enjoy, never to be taken. Tied up and gagged and no one to mourn her. Confident in my trap, my peace remains unshaken. At night, subtle sounds of scratching throughout the house can be heard. They lightly echo from the dark to my ears, like lullabies singing me to sleep. Like a bird in a cage, singing for the one who captured it, truly absurd. She was so simple, so innocent, so beautiful and meek. Screaming and kicking hoping to get through, She struggles and fights to break her prison. The knots are tested and the nails on the box too. She acts like a human possessed fighting through exorcism. But heavy was the hammer that slammed the box shut. The nails pierced through the wood like bullets through flesh, Making sure the contents was never unleashed and stayed eternally stuck. So I sleep free from worry and any undo stress. For without her, lost in my solitude I would be. So for now, I will cherish her grieving cries and her helpless moans. Mine she will be till death steals her from me. And that day my selfish, evil deed will finally be shown.