Northern_Lights_2016

18 Boxes Caitlyn Hunt Boxes. Boxes and piles. Piles of boxes. Boxes of clothes. Laundry baskets filled with piles — piles of this, piles of that — of stuff that wouldn’t fit in boxes. Memories tucked away in boxes under the stairs. The rest of them full, full to the brim with the things I need — the things I tell myself I need. A box is not a home, not a proper home for things. If my things don’t have a home . . . can I? I Was Never One for Writing Poetry I was never one for writing poetry. Everyone told me it’d get easier. “You just gotta put your mind to it!” “You’ll figure something out.” Everyone told me it’d get easier. Assembling my thoughts into verse? “You’ll figure something out.” “Poetry is easy!” Assembling my thoughts into verse I am easily overwhelmed without form. “Poetry is easy!” “Don’t make it rhyme. Rhyming is for kids.” I am easily overwhelmed without form. Too many options send me into a creative-anxiety-spiral. “Don’t make it rhyme. Rhyming is for kids.” So many rules and none of them ever apply. Too many options send me into a creative-anxiety-spiral. I have to remind myself of the purpose. So many rules and none of them ever apply. Poetry is a vessel for one’s chaotic self. I have to remind myself of the purpose. “You just gotta put your mind to it!” Poetry is a vessel for one’s chaotic self. I was never one for writing poetry. Caitlyn Hunt