I found the box in the forest.

Deep into the trees,

where the rustling grows hostile.

It sat atop a rock,

as though the rock was an altar,

as though the box was an offering.

Or a god.

Imperfectly carved,

with shifting patterns and -

a pulse.

I had to take it.

It sits now,

under the floorboards.

The presence of it is so enormous

I wonder no one else has heard its hum.

Sometimes I open it

to find nothing.

I breathe relief and disappointment.

Sometimes I open it

to find a void,

less than nothing,

an emptiness so complete

it reaches for you with desperate fingers

and claws the oxygen from your lungs.

Sometimes I open it

to find a scream,

wordless and soundless,

but a cry so apocalytpic,

that I have to force the lid closed

with splintered fingers.

I won’t open it again.

I always do.

Sometimes I open it

to find the gentlest light,

a flicker of candle warmth

which envelops me and whispers

so tenderly of home.

Sometimes I open it

to find my reflection,

and I can’t look.