There’s a small cardboard box in my brain: a special one, where I can forget everything I put in there, so it doesn’t kill me from the inside. It works beautifully and holds all of the woes I want badly enough to hide from myself. I can live from day to day without fear of my self-manufactured toxins. There is one problem, though, which lays in its integrity; it is made but out of cardboard. My secrets and fears are a dense fluid, making the cardboard sag at its middle and darken with saturation, and sometimes it trickles out in a small stream from the box’s open corner if I don’t pay attention. It leaves scars on the floor that burn my eyes, but I daren’t more than whimper. I will save that for when I slip under its brown flaps one secret too many and its entire structure collapses, leaving me to just brace myself for the corrosion of all I could never stand to face.