The Brick Wall

He told me

that my problems are a brick wall.

That my choices are few:

Stand there and stare at it for the rest of my life

or tear it down,

one red brick at a time,

and get past it.

And so I made myself

a constant construction zone,

always tearing down walls

and casting bricks behind me

till the landscape was littered

as far as the eye could see

with useless masonry

and I was no longer myself

but a girl with a harder edge

and calloused hands

and dirt mixed with tears

on a sunburned face.

And then he left me.

And despite all the roughness

I’d acquired, my heart was still soft

and still broken in the end.

So I grabbed up the pieces of my heart

and picked up discarded bricks

till my back ached

and, using my tears and

ground up pieces of my naivete,

I made mortar.

And carefully and expertly,

I built a wall around the pieces of my heart,

a tower of Babel, reaching far into the grey sky,

where no man could ever touch it again.


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