This Box

I’m going to smash this fucking box. I take that back. I’m going to smash both of these fucking boxes. I’m going to smash the one that is marked with the figure of the girl in the dress, you know, the one from the restroom sign and I’m going to smash the other one, the one that’s marked with an angular figure standing with legs apart, the one from the other sign because while those boxes exist you’re not allowed to stand between them. No one will let you. I won’t even let you, because until I feel it for myself I can never understand what it feels like to look at those boxes and have trouble deciding which one I’m supposed to go in. Probably until the day I die I will crouch into the one marked with the girl in the dress with her legs chastely held together and I will shut the lid behind me and I won’t think twice and I won’t notice how fucking cramped it is in here. But while I’m sitting in my box wondering why I don’t care that my legs are cramping and that my lungs are yearning for fresh air, you’re standing outside glancing furtively from one to the other because one fits your body and neither fit the way you feel inside. So I am going to smash both fucking boxes, the one with the boy and the one with the girl and as much as I want to, I’m not going to pick up the pieces and build a new box because come to think of it, my back’s getting a kink from being curled up like this and why don’t you and I just lie down where the boxes used to be and stretch out our legs and you can wear a skirt and I can wear pants or maybe we can both wear skirts or just turn out the lights and in the dark it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing because all I can hear is your voice.