The box swallows the dim light

The box swallows the dim light,

red and slick,

a pool of trapped rain waiting to crack.

Edges chipped—

not from carelessness but years

pressed under fingers that polished

and hid.

I lean close, see my face bend

in the gloss, a broken shape

caught and bent like the lacquer itself.

Sticky, wet, the smell of old polish

hangs heavy in the room,

something sticky

between the gloss and the truth.

It’s a silence that hums beneath the shine,

a gloss that hides

the fingerprints left behind,

sharp and unfinished.