There are three states of matter, and the first is me in my room: a box. It's just me, and sometimes Joni pressing on her dulcimer strings. I wait there for someone to let me out, because I have two states of being and they’re with or without. I travel back and forth between them, pushed and pulled by a never-ending force of desire to be anything other than what I find myself to be. The curiosity will be the end of me. But here, there is only what I am, a question. A guess of a person. The time that l knocked over won’t stop spilling from its broken and unbroken vial as I scribble down pretty, meaningless words until something sounds profound enough to etch into the floorboards. I can't decide if I like it more being inside, when no one can tell if I'm thriving or decaying. No one can see me; no one can know what’s true or untrue. If the box is opened, all the light will stream in and bounce off each of the four walls. Everything exposed. The rotting flowers, the tangled cords, and the shelf displaying all the lies I've ever told preserved in little jars. There's only one state that matters and it’s the one I'm always in search of. I want to be open. I want someone to open the box. I want to rip through the four walls, before these thoughts that drip off my lips dissolve to smoke and rise to hit the ceiling.