I’m holed up but not whole.

My walls, nearly nothing they hold. My bookshelves, merely the same. The boxes filled with books, remain untouched for days.

I expose myself, bare and alone. For little do I know, of who reads my woes. So in a moment of careless progress, I open this tome.

Filled with dusty old words and emotions all to familiar. I can taste the disgrace to leave them as they are. But saves them the betrayal of becoming what I became.

In this way, I save happiness for another day. For a time when I won’t shut it out. For a time when I can see the past with level eyes.

For a time when I’m whole.