You are a beautiful puzzle made out of glass
You have a warm caramel center, hidden inside of a labyrinth of glass walls
And any wrong move, wrong turn, wrong anything, is met with a shatter of those glass panes, and slamming down of stone walls.
Crashing down around the caramel, sealing it in
It took me years to excavate that caramel, to keep it intact, to drink deep and be merry with you.
And now you relaid the stone,  reset the glass, and with a big sign that says “warning, spencer, keep out”
But my doors are open, and you wont step foot outside your castle, leaving me to the cold lonely breeze.

I’m not the kind of person who should be alone.  I think too much and other people make me happy, human interaction feeds my soul.  And yet here I sit, frantically typing as if the more keys I smash into the board the faster ill get over you.  The more letters I put on the page the less I have to deal with, ya right, *******.  But I write and write and write because putting these words on the paper is like pulling poison out of me, ******* and drawing it out like wax, spinning it like cloth and throwing that cloth in a big ******* fire, but instead of light and warmth im left with a little less inside and little more outside.  But whats a pond to the ocean? Whats a match to the sun?  All these thoughts become undone and remade in print. Because typing out poetry is like boxing, you hit and hit and hit the paper and then all of a sudden you get hit back, letters on screens mirroring internal screams.  Writing on paper is a sword fight, and yes the pen is mightier but that paper betrays you, words carved into paper flesh like tattoos glyphed into trees.  And just like me words don’t like to be alone, trees don’t like to be alone, I am not the type of person who should be alone.  Singular is not my preferred pronoun.