Work Text:
As I sit here in my laundry basket I think about the meaning of them
I feel safe here
Trapped in a tiny box of white plastic and gray handles
My knees up to my chest, lower back pressed uncomfortably into the side of the thing that keeps me safe
I wonder as I sit
Do I find comfort in this object because it holds discarded things, so it would only make sense if it holds me, another discarded thing?
Is it the unyielding corners and edges that force me into a position that I can't truly move from that gives me the familiarity of forced expectation?
Or maybe it's because its a collection of scents from people who, despite their actions making me feel unsafe, their smell will always remind me of home?
I'd drown in these clothes for an eternity to feel a fake sense of security for just a second longer.