Blind Box Prize

I am my own universe

made up of unknowns.

Always in a baggy sweater.

Body always working to stay alive.

I am a silent tornado

learning to bask in its imbalance.

I am a box of matches

on fresh white sheets.

There is oxygen waiting

to fill your lungs.

Place here the name

you wish to speak of. 

Reviews

[emmajoygreen]

Your poem reminds me of a laid pack of cards, placed face down.. and the game is to choose your own winning cards. Your writing seems to be some surprise parts of your being, your choice to give or perhaps, to be taken.
As to choosing a name... best stick to self rather than be a puppet master!

Re-read your phrases, 'wondering if there could be more to come.. what there is gives a fascinating insight into the You of you. That third couplet is waiting on the edge.. or not!