It was such a little box, there, in the palm of my hand. If I wrapped my fingers round it, it was completely concealed within my fist, impossible to detect.
But then it grew.
I could no longer hold it in one hand so I held it in two, tight against my chest. I had to wrap it in words to stop anyone looking too close. Soon, even that wasn’t enough. I had to let it drop to the floor, unable to support it any longer. I put it behind my back, in part to hide it, but also to turn from it, to deny its existence or connection with me.
That’s when it consumed me.
And now I’m trapped inside this box that was once so small. I made it, I know. I helped it grow, shaped it, let it swallow me up. This is my box.