journal · poetry


I built these walls of stone
made for my secrets
a quiet home
a bed to lie or lay in
the alter of my perdition
the result of my submission
and although my heart cries out
for something new and tender
I am trapped within this surrender
which succeeds in rendering me
useless, hazardous, contemptuous
I try to fight the rising tides
of guilt and distance and time
and find that I am paralyzed
barely scraping by
and dying for that touch to set me free
and let me be
if only I could tear it all down
and start over
but that would be too easy…
as if things weren’t hard enough.


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