I found the box under her bed

I found the box under her bed,

dust thick on the cardboard,

held together with a rubber band

that had lost its snap.

Letters inside with faded handwriting—

a boy's name on the envelope,

her name written there instead—

and I understood: she had kept

these small paper confessions,

these thin proofs

that someone had wanted her,

had written her name

in blue ink,

had said things

that required a box,

required darkness,

required the safety

of the space beneath a bed.

I didn't open them.

I wrapped it back up,

put it exactly where I found it,

the dust redistributed

but not erased.

Because I remembered mine.

The same box.

The same rubber band.

Not because what was inside

was wrong,

but because I thought it had to be

hidden,

secret,

real

only in darkness,

only under the bed,

only where no one could find

the truth

I thought I'd buried

and somehow

kept alive.

We keep these boxes.

We keep them close.

We keep them where no one will look,

proof that we were wanted,

that we mattered,

that someone thought

our names

were worth the price

of words,

worth the risk,

worth keeping

close

under the bed,

under the dust,

under the rubber band

that holds

the years together.