Hello little Box of Matches.
Are you dead, I wonder?
I wonder why she kept corpses inside of you along with those seemingly alive.
Did they smell different too? Did the others notice?
Were they sad, did they weep?
Perhaps I should give them a proper burial. Should I?
O, little Box of Matches, don’t weep.
I hope you’re not dead, I hope you’re listening.
Does Pine miss you? Did he weep when he saw you part?
I know you regret those ugly tattoos, I wish I could remove them.
I tattooed little Match – Perfect Match – inside of you.
Is he dead?
Why did you get made into the tiny little matches you are?
Why did you get put inside such a sad little purple Box with brown sideburns?
Do you live well together?
Are you like me and my Complicated Neighbours?
Do some of you lie and cheat and steal?
Are you corrupt?
Do you cry for nothing?
I suspect you don’t – it’d kill you.
Will it kill her?
I hope it doens’t kill anyone.
Don’t weep, little Box. Don’t weep, tiny Matches.
Hold onto each other and don’t let yourselves get wasted or burnt.
I used the ashes from their dead heads to make Beauty, by the way.
I vow to bury them so your weeping comes to an end.
I know, I know.
It won’t.
But at least you’ll stop wondering why she placed them there with you, holding their ashes to your unfeeling noses untill you begged for some room to breathe.
I’ll give you some room.
It’s the least I can do, besides giving you random tattoos that scream “Rosemary for Rememberance and Pansies for Thoughts!”.
Tell me you’re alive.
Tell me you’re not in my head.
Tell me you care and tell me you’re not dead.
That’s if you’re alive. Are you?
Goodbye little Box of Matches.
Don’t cry yourselves to death.
It would be just too sad.
Goodbye.
