Were you disappointed when you got to know me?

I’ve tightly gripped the refuge of my horror, but it was spoiled by the futile head treatment.

Breathing in my wake because distance to living is how I plainly respond, withdrawing lending hands for me to get up. The close-fitting box is making me pick up yellow carnations, incarnating disappointment and sadness—chords of the eyes who were trying to know me.

I was like eating my own heart for trying to be unknown. But my bad, I should’ve stayed that way…

Now that I sliced my grief, my guest gifted me a circular staircase for my unending recalls of burden.

Why did I even ask? For I’ve seen how you flinch with my unruly breakdowns. You were scared, but I was more scared because I was certain that after the jump scare, you would make use of the departure ticket.

I was right—you left.

But you gave me something—a land to bury me. No one can really save me but my own hands. And I thank you for running, for that was my cue to walk and leave the graveyard because I have never disappointed myself yet.