Walls

I'm stacking bricks and laying wet cement. I feel less of this kind of pain. The daggers aimed towards me are hitting the walls, just as I had planned. I build the walls stronger, taller and soon I can barely hear their snide remarks. They can't reach me, burn me, if I keep them at a distance.

I'm putting in the ceiling now, filling every empty space between the bricks with the wet cement. I wait and watch it dry. The last of the setting sun leaks through the little hole that I've left for air, but then something happens, it goes dark. I look for a way out, come to my feet as fast as I can, panicking and searching for a door, surely I must have thought to build a door.
There is no way out, no light left coming through the little hole that I've left. I seat myself against the walls that I built, staring blankly into every crevice, where the wet cement dries stale. I've blocked out all their voices, shielded myself from their blows, but now I am my own prisoner and I've worked too hard at this point to find my way out.

I'm content at this point, becoming use to the idea of of a closed heart, but there are days when I doubt my own logic. It's all well and good in the night, when I fear the thought of the unknown, all the possibilities of hurt that keeps me here inside these walls, but in that moment when the sun leaks through, when the scent of blossoms drifts its way into that little hole and I hear the birds calling to each other back and forth in the distance...those are the times when I want to rip these walls back down to dust. If I want to really taste the good, all of it, in its full, then I'd have to open up, I'd have to risk.

There are parts of me that still crave that, a life without fear, but most of my insides tell me that its a bad idea, that I'll regret it and so I listen. I listen to that voice. I listen to that voice because its easy, but there is always a hole, an almost door left open where all the good still leaks in and I carry it with me, pretending to be a calloused heart, giving off the impression that all these walls are strong, that they will hold after any storm, but soon it will come out again, the walls will break down and I'll stand to my feet again, replacing bricks with new cement, putting fresh shields over scars, because I couldn't stop the hope from slipping through.

The walls become harder to maintain, because as each day dawns with the song of the morning, the hole lets in a little more light and subconsciously I am keeping it there, I am nurturing it like a little plant, making room for it to grow and little by little, when my back is turned, the foundation begins to crack and my walls don't just break, they are being broken, broken by Your strong hands that are finding a way to soften my almost calloused heart.