By Renée Mineart, 10 Dec 2018

Boxes fill the room in which I sit.
Cubes of cardboard cover the floor.
Packing my life away makes me sick.
Not sure I can take this anxiety much more.

I take my best friend’s things off the shelves.
Off the walls and out of drawers.
And pack it all carefully into boxes.
The tape gun scraps across the lid.

How neatly our lives fit into boxes.
My sister is in one right now.
Not breathing, no heart beating.
She will never again see her things.

Like my heart, this poem is broken.
It doesn’t rhyme or beat like it should.
My muscles constantly tense, head often pounding.
Not sleeping, but always yawning.

I did my best, I did all I could.
I tried to do all that she asked.
She was my friend during times of good.
And I held her hand till the line stopped beating.

I gave up everything.
Everything I had, Everything I am.
Everything I worked to create.
And now, all I’m left with, are boxes.

Boxes to be moved.
Boxes to be binned.
Boxes to be given away.
And one box, to the furnace I will carry.