She built herself a prison.
A cave in which to hide.
When life was no longer worthy,
Or worth it.
She crept beneath her blanket of dark moods,
crafted by her own hands,
made stitch by stitch by experience unwanted.
She closed the curtains of depression,
heavy with despair, lined with tears
and hung on hooks of hatred and loss.
This, her castle, her home,
her haven, her prison,
her well, her oubliette.
She wanted to forget,
here behind her grey walls that wept,
crushed by the ceiling of torrential tears.
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