Box by the Chair 
      By JoHannah P. Green

She collects all the hurts -
and stores them away
in a box
in her heart.
The treasured bits--
the twists of string
and little stones,
mined in the cold, odd moments
of each painful encounter.
They gleam, sparkling gems,
wet with tears.

She saves them all -
each ugly, purple bruise,
each raw, red wound of the heart,
each gash, each cut,
each scar,
neatly arranged in rainbow gradient,
and stored away in a box
in her heart.

She keeps them all-
humiliations – all dull, dirty-yellow-
the dark ochre of taunts and
the shaming laughter;
the sneering faces frozen in a moment-
all olive and burnt orange.
Each is a prize, sharp-edged
from constant turning-
over - and over – and over.
Each new addition to the trove
arranged and rearranged,
never dull, never fading, never lost.

She saves each one-
each jewel,
soaked in tears.
In her ocean of sadness -
cold waves of memory- wash-
deep sapphire.

They fill the box
in her heart.
The dusty red of angry words,
spoken… and not,
the faded gray rose of offered love, rebuffed -
All
knotted in bundles,
tied with black ribbons;
kept close at hand
kept in the box
neatly arranged in rainbow gradient.
The gleaming edges and bits of sharp sorrow-
fill the box so full,
never emptied,
until
it is too heavy to lift.