Library.

Break something valuable, even if it ends up being your heart.

I've never been one to believe in this. It's easy to scoff after years of finding solace in masochists and narcissists. It's hard to believe that polka dot umbrella caught my eye. Priced without breaking bank, optimistic in the most grievous of colors. You grow fond of contradictions when you grow leery of taking sides. Something new in your arms, something lost in your pocket, something like excitement rising in your chest. This subtle rush attaches itself to the susceptible and finds a home in my counterparts. Sometimes I get so tired of being grouped with my gender. Baby girls in pink grow up to be curly-haired terrors, carefree and unrestricted; at least, that's what I've always been.

It's time to let the world take a few stair steps above what I can catch. I haven't been lost in a long, long time. Mad lib: Cautious, hesitantly, trusted, learned, independent, defying, typical, angst. Construct the bank around rows of apple trees and call it home, my paperback book left to dust. After all, who really remembers what they only loved for a day? Maybe I'm not the only one who can't help but revisit. My musical collection is consistent; no matter where I go, familiar words spark the same memories. Never out of commission, yet never replaced, this is a library if ever I ran my finger along the spine of my favorite works.

I mean nothing but honesty; do you know who you are? Nothing I can comprehend beyond what I never expected to attempt to. I can't say I expected something so set in its ways to melt away like it has. I'm used to winning every game of hide and seek; I'm used to being to far from reach. I don't intend to get this in check; I intend to suspend in dead space the way I should've long ago. Nothing more than a dent, nothing more than a shiny white scar. This is one height I need to overcome.