In the little glass bottle I call home, I live in a house made of mossy wood and hardened sulfur. Its suffocation is very comfortable, like a warm hug on a cold morning. I fear that one day, it will let me go.
I like being held.
In the little glass bottle, sunlight smears against its surface like butter on toast. Its searing heat makes me feel safe. I fear that one day, it will be cold again.
I like being safe.
In the little glass bottle, there’s a lake made of my sadness. The fishes that swim get lonely sometimes, so I pay them visits. I fear that one day, they won’t visit me.
I like having company.
In the little glass bottle, my dreams grow on a patch of dirt. I water it daily so it can grow big like me, even if they’ve always been short. I fear that one day, they’ll wither.
I like being taken care of.
In the little glass bottle, I often look up at the cork. I wonder what it’s like outside, but the fishes tell me it’s a dark place. The sun seems to always shine, so maybe it’s not dark. I fear that one day, I won’t have any adventures.
I like being free.
In the little glass bottle, I live with many things. They speak to me, even if there’s no sound. They listen to me, even if they don’t move. They love me, even if they don’t show it. I fear that one day, I won’t love them anymore.
I like being loving.
Thr little glass bottle is all I’ve known. I’ve memorized every crevice and crack, and make my rounds without missing a beat. It’s a bit tall, but it’s because I’m very small. There have been visitors before, but I often forget who. I wonder where they came from, and if they’ll come back. I fear that one day, I’ll know who they are.
I like the little glass bottle, even if I live on its deep end.