This is why I lock myself away here, in this imaginary room, away from risk and hurt and life and taking chances.
This is why my curtains are drawn tight shut, so nobody can peek through the window that leads to my soul and steal it away, for once a part is taken, it can never be returned.
This is why I do not give my heart to people, or allow one to be given to me in return.
This?
This.
This feeling, this uncontrolled intoxication, this rush of something I can neither identify nor understand; raw and unchartered, a jagged cliff face exposed to harsh coastal winds and eroded by the waves that crash over me.
Please, take this heart-shaped box of mine and lock it away again, for you and I both know that it does not belong here; it has seen enough daylight in the space of this one short week to discolour, to singe the edges, enough dazzling rays to pass straight through the angled magnifying glass and scorch its delicate paper covering clean away.
Take the key from my burned fingers and throw it in this fast-flowing torrent; watch it float away on these streaming rivulets and believe me when I tell you that this is why I do not love.
