Each mistake is a promise. A strike. Keeping them at bay. No way to allow yourself anything because you’ve created a shaft, a chute, a well, in which you can fall.
No action underpinned with vows. No truth. Scaffolding and a beautiful facade. With so many pounding on the entrance; the hollow center shakes. Echoes. The emptiness reverberates and dust motes sing.
You are not home. You never will be. Could such a place exist? Would you go if it did? Or recognize it?
You’ve set it up so the fault will be yours when the time comes. When the metal bends and wood splinters beneath the weight of lies and good intentions; your need will not see the shifting of trusses or hear the peal of resistance. When the curtains catch fire, you’ll mistake it for a sunset. Watch as the walls are consumed. Stand on the edge of your clever construction; missing your opportunity to drop.