The Box I Carry
My mind is a thrift-store Scrabble box,
corners worn soft from too many hands,
the lid never quite closing right.
Inside
letters scattered,
missing pieces,
no rules sheet to explain
how I’m supposed to play this life.
Some tiles are cracked
from words that were thrown at me
like stones.
Some are faded
from years of being told
to be quieter, smaller, easier.
PTSD hums in the background
like an old refrigerator
that never fully shuts off
always buzzing,
always reminding me
of everything that once hurt.
ADHD shakes the box
even when I’m trying
so desperately
to keep things still.
Thoughts jump,
memories interrupt,
the past barges in
without knocking.
And still
every morning
I sift through the chaos.
I search for letters
that can build something gentler
for my children.
I spell safe
even when I never had it.
I spell love
even when I had to teach myself what it meant.
I spell home
with trembling hands
and stubborn hope.
I am not a perfect player.
I lose my place.
I forget the rules.
I cry in the middle of the game.
But I am still here,
still choosing
to rearrange the pieces
so my children inherit,
not the broken box,
but the courage it took to keep playing anyway.
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