Today, the doorbell of my mental hideout rang.
It rang with a sound like twinkling waterfalls without the moisture,
And tweeted like a soft pillow from my 5-year-old camping nest.

The scorching glare of darkness crawled up the stairs and seeped
Past the crackling summer which was too cold for me.
It was a chill that was like purple and green and blue.

I went to a hut to produce my own perfume,
Scented with exhaustion and misery.
There is not much else I can add, the shelves are bare as if
A theif came in and out and never came back.

When silence finally speaks, it’s time I fall back into my chair,
A long forgotten place of rest. It’s not really that sweet,
Not really like the sugar leaves stored deep down in my
Bluish drawer.