little paper boxes
soggy at the fold
where my pursed lips would

my breath gives life to
two-dimensional creases
and repeat, and again, i

a children’s craft book
cranes and hearts and handwritten letters
haphazardly piled, side by

fuel for the pyre
appreciated, but forgotten
a classroom memorial for the boy who 

the school psychiatrist approaches me
one of the last in the room
even though i didn’t even know

they hired her after the second one
two in a year
she asks me did you know

No.

and i don’t know why im here
and i don’t know why im crying
and i don’t know why my fingers
can’t stop making
little paper boxes. they pile on the chair
to be crushed in a new apartment
far away from their little boy
and little girls who
don’t have a right to cry
to be scared.
for her friend who knew him who takes edibles on weekdays
and the other who self-prescribes painkillers and prays to overdose
for herself, who found the razor on her skin one two three times
four five six paper boxes
count to ten, she says
you just need
air