Spectrum

I’m Box #8, red, fabulous, and slightly tilted.

Don’t judge—I’ve held more secrets than your therapist.

The orange one’s always anxious—

thinks rain is a government experiment.

Yellow believes he’s a portal to the insect realm.

Keeps whispering “The beetle king will return.”

Green meditates. Sends vibes to the squirrels.

We don’t ask what’s in his letters. 

Blue gets love notes. Every. Single. Day.

Claims it's a curse. We think he likes it.

Purple? Full-on drama. Tarot cards, glitter,

once screamed because someone mailed a potato.

We’ve seen it all—

breakup letters sealed with glitter tears,

late bills folded like apologies,

invitations no one answered.


Still, we hold space.

For hope. 
For coupons.

For the next peculiar thing you’ll send.

We’re not just mailboxes. We’re personalities with hinges.

We hold the town’s gossip, taxes, dreams, and junk.

We’ve seen things. Heard things.

Now please—lift gently. No one likes a slam.

Peaks Island, Maine