When a book is worn, it's safe to assume it's been loved by many.
This year made me understand that the same should not be said for people.
Love should not wear you down, it shouldn't tear or wrinkle your pages.
I deserve to be treated like an autographed first edition.
Loved in such a way that I forget what it was like to collect dust on a shelf.
A love that smooths out the pages and appreciates every word that makes my story.

The fault line grows as I reach for your hand.
Will you pull me closer or let the Earth swallow me whole?
The ground beneath my feet crumbles but I don't dare move.
To fall for you is certain death.

When the calm in my eyes met the fire in yours, I mistook your heat for warmth.
You were an artist and arsonist, creating something beautiful just to destroy it.
The cycle was violent, reminiscent of manipulated shades of red on canvas.
Your words were sharp, softening my tone until I fell into quiet submission.
Your need for control couldn't be satiated, I failed to realize that I handed you the knife.
Blood pooling at my feet, I still felt grateful you chose me.
I opened my mouth but no words came out and as you lit your final match, I realized I was the art.

I didn't realize it was raining until my clothes were soaked.
A dense fog abruptly concealed everything around me.
Apathy is a thief of reason.
It's easy to forget why we stay.
Instead, I ask what I'd miss.
The warmth of the sun on my face.
The sound of the ocean hitting the shoreline.
My best friend's laugh.
My cat purring.
The mountains.
Late-night drives.
Blue eyes.
Music.
Trees.
Fleeting moments that we take for granted.
The rain will stop and my clothes will dry.
The fog will dissipate.
And I will choose to stay.

I built this prison by hand, laid every brick until I couldn't see the world around me.
Shackles on my ankles, anchors keeping me from floating away.
Solitary confinement the only solace l've ever known.
I built this prison by hand, my sentence indefinite.
My pain written on the walls, a reminder of why I'm here.
Memories kept out like the worst kind of contraband.
Suffering consequences of actions not my own.
Was my trial fair? Do I deserve parole?
Having once felt safe within these walls, I find myself claustrophobic.
Suffocated by unearned guilt, choking on shame.
Cracks in the brick reveal light.
A reminder that the sun rises, time passes, though I stay here.
If I built this prison by hand, what else can I build?