In my little black box I am not alone,

there are others here like me.

All I know is there is a competition,

to be the best,

to be the worst.

We play dress up with each other's flaws,

mixing and matching to gauge reactions. We learn never to trust another human, never let them see what is true

and what is an adopted front.

Never let them see weakness.

Trust is a mistake,

a chink in your carefully crafted armor,

a person meant to protect you

that has handed you scissors,

and words just as sharp.

They cut deeper and there are no stitches to mend the wound.

Trust is a walk to the window that ends in dislocation and a mouthful of dirty, dingy tile.

It is not the taste of tile I recall now, but the weight of those I trusted smearing me into it like a discarded cigarette.

Time heals, but what eternity can erase another?

Will I ever heal from such a vast expanse of pain?

A reality that very few understand,

unless they shared that same little black box with you.