There is a wooden box,
not too small and not too large,
just the right size to carry around.
The wood is no longer firm,
scrapes are everywhere.
Painted white,
with thin embroidered laces around the edges.
Right in the middle,
a keyhole with golden plate.
That is vintage-style,
dented,
the shape we cannot guess
what kind of key shall open it.
A little girl takes the box
to whatever places she goes,
although she never opens it.
There is probably nothing inside the box,
there isn’t any sound,
no weight but just wood.
Probably there is only damp air,
or just the rusting of the plate,
or the dust of the wood.
It becomes dangerous,
just like poisonous fume.
Not-knowingly,
some emotions,
secrets,
hence trapped inside the box.
The girl must keep it safe.
Not just anyone can find out what is inside.
Nevertheless she, too,
is hurting
because of the state of the box.
She has to find the key soon.
She has to move her secrets somewhere else.
Somewhere safer, to protect herself and her secrets.
Maybe to another box.
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