in my own home. i have returned after wandering. yet i really have not made a true journey back. people file in happy to be in  a grand home welcoming me home. i find myself cold. shivering in my own winter. i see a sign on my house no one else sees. the gentle breeze elevates the noise of the creaking porch. the shadows are ready to swallow me and the words condemmed are written in my own blood across the peeling wooden exterior. the people filing in are ghost, formed by my own imagination so i feel less alone. the distance is dark, black. the edges of the box i have been locked into. my condemmed home is unfit to live, for i let the outside world break through the foundation and build new walls. the sky is dark. my perception of light is also a facade. i finally realize the chains on my wrists and ankles. i am tied to the coners of this dark box. a steel containment, my doll house. ill play house, ill be your play thing.i am trapped here. scarcely breathing,unless to entertain. i have found myself content in my disillusion until reality seeps through my pretty ghosts. the living nightmares begin and my screams can be heard resounding off the extremities of my containment. bring me back to comfort, show me how to imagine my world again, andi’ll play nice. bring my pretty ghosts back so ill free myself from this wretched nightmare. i can hear you cackling everytime the pain breaks through and reality flickers back.my understanding of my captivity does not seem to be relevant, only the fact that i am here and utterly alone with no way out, and secretly and sickly content on being your prison.

**i wrote this on my phone which decided to not capitilize my i’s or give me a crusor to fix it, so ignore all the awful grammar