there are three white boxes in a white room:
the first box is smooth.
the second is rough.
the third is texture.
a wall.
the smooth box will die.
she grips the hammer; corners break.
striking harder, hard, harder.
an eyelash falls. and another.
she doesn’t care—she can’t.
she has to do what she’s told.
silence:
with naked eyelids; the box shatters.
the rough box distant, she longs to blink.
she rips toward the rough exterior, jaws gnawing the ground.
eat, eat, eat.
the bone of her mouth tearing that box, the texture grinds her teeth.
she won’t forget.
she will forget, but she won’t.
the box can’t.
her lips are furious, her gums seed the malice.
she can’t control herself.
biting, tearing.
forget.
she can’t control herself.
feed, feed, feed.
the rough box weeps, and in an instant, dies.
the final box waits.
so she scrapes over to it.
defiance.
she grabs the textured faces and peels her fingers.
her body upsets.
in haphazard motions,
dizzily repeating herself:
“the red room invitation.”
her right iris rips.
her left iris [tears.]
adjust.
she covers her face.
adjust.
she breathes.
silence.
she’s gone.
Looks like that creative writing class ate your brain…