The truth is, I hated it.

I hated being in those cramped pages, claustrophobic and impenetrable.

A lie would be that I enjoyed it.

I hated being in those dusty walls, the scent of ink permeating into my being, like an old fable.

A secret is that I knew a way out.

I knew how to escape my wretched fate, to unlock the door holding me back.

Yet, with bated breath I stood, key to the lock, waiting for it to open, face molded into a pout.

But it never did, for willpower is what I  lack.

An omission would be that I didn’t want to leave

I wanted to stay in my own box of failure, where the expectations were as low as the floor

For whatever reason, I wanted to stay, to mourn, to grieve

For what? I couldn’t say, I didn’t know, and I never yearned for more