On slow summer afternoons,
I'd clime the crabapple tree next to my house,
as high as I could, book in hand,
and read until the bark bit my skin too deep.

On my sure decent,
I would conemplate the emotions I had searched for in those words,
enveloped in melancholic relief,
and would begin my online mascarade.

The reds, the blues, the greens, the yellows,
identifying my peers,
behind profiles of butterflies and knives,
with the most tragic of stories written in comic sans.

For hours,
sprawled on my Hawaiian quilt,
I'd type up entire lives,
Desperate to fill the void with meaning.

My pink walls were wallpapered,
collected cards and magazine posters,
reflecting the must of crisp airconditioning in an old house,
my feed dancing between hardwood and synthetic wool.

Those years my pastel room
watched my online pursuits
and shielded late-night adventures
bringing light to my gothic pursuits.

Sometimes I regret the lies I lived,
wishing I could find abandoned bonds without shame,
but then I remember the way it sustained me,
and how many feet down I would be without.