Little Person

A lonesome poem. Not sure if it's done yet...

Little person in a box.
It has a door but no one knocks.
It has a window colored black.
The stars won’t hear of coming back.
A rusty mailbox opens wide.
Revealing naught but dust inside.
And on the corner bed she lay
Atop the spot she’s been all day.
The darkness presses on her eyes.
She doesn’t blink and rarely tries.
The silence fills her little ears.
She wants to cry but has no tears.
She’s lost all hope of being free.
There is no lock, there is no key.
Just her inside her little box.
That has a door, but no one knocks.