The Book of Weston

23: I had my castle,

my princess.

I fire-breathed my life.

I built the walls

to hold me in,

hoarded my money,

backed up my files,

wrote my will,

bought insurance,

stored my papers

in a fireproof bag,

planned and replanned,

fortifying.

What the fuck

did I think I had?

In four fragile years,

it crumbled. Castles

never fall; they melt

like butter into

something messy,

grotesque, unplanned.

Defeated, I crawl

inside what remains

and hope it hardens

into a home.