It started with a sound too soft to name,
a melody that moved like it knew my shame.
I followed it down past the dresser’s lean,
where the dust holds secrets you’d never clean.
A loose board cried beneath my knees,
and out came air like forgotten pleas.
Beneath it sat a box of rust and gold,
wrapped in lace and air too cold.
I shouldn’t have touched it–but I did with care,
the hinges sighed like they breathed in prayer.
It opened slow like an old regret,
and the tune inside hasn’t stopped yet.
The music box beneath the floor still plays,
a lullaby stitched from quieter days.
It hums the things I tried to hide,
and plays them back on the other side.
The figurine inside is wrong and cracked,
a ballerina bent with her face turned back.
She spins to notes in jagged time,
and bleeds her rhythm into mine.
At night I hear her shift and click,
her limbs unwind in movements sick.
She dances slow beneath the bed,
and sings my thoughts inside my head.
The nurse said there’s nothing there at all,
but I see her shadow on the wall.
And every time I close my eyes–
the box rewinds and the dancer cries.
I tried to burn it once, I swear,
but the fire died in open air.
And now the boards creak out of sync,
like they’re waiting for me to blink.