My Black Box and Fine Lines

The never-ending process of storing 
Information and either accepting the 
War or setting it aside in my black box, 
Where anything can enter but nothing 
Comes out of it without permission, so 
I can live a normal life, functional 
Among my friends and family, 
Also rules of fine lines 
That I seemed to cross during the 
War, I take note and imprint them 
On my mind always— 
For the next gallery of lights. 
There are always a few choices 
Where boundaries seem key, 
Whether to go on living 
Or be incited to maddening anger, 
Whether to take the road further 
To a place where only I find 
Myself abducted or raped, 
Whether to trust fallibly the 
Care of a doctor, and whether 
To listen to my heavy heart or one 
Of another. 
Life goes on, they say. 
Life goes on, I say, 
So long as I process and keep my 
Black box beside me, 
So long as I learn which lines 
Not to cross and imprint them 
On my heart forever. 
Then I can trust even myself. 
I’ll marry, maybe, 
And have kids, maybe, 
And even be able to keep up 
My artwork. 
Over the years, I can look back 
And see improvements and sometimes 
Even look forward to another 
Episode, in wait, ready with 
My black box and fine lines, 
Ready for triumph and eventual 
Victory. 
I’m no curious cat, as they say, 
But a chooser among battles, 
Ready for the war that I 
Must engage in from time to time.