emotions stacked neatly beside one another
like the novels on the bookshelves in your best friends room
each tucked away, exactly how she liked them to be
refusing to be opened (felt), for fear of their power
and then he stumbled in
lightly thumbing through the pages of many emotions
seemingly in awe of their beauty
encouraging their existence, giving just enough
only to slam them shut once more
damaging their spines
ripping those delicate and untouched pages
until every book is empty
she found herself shoulder-deep in the pages of past emotions
restocking her shelves (and wishing that paper could ****)