Bricks

Up until recently, I believed I was healing.

I’m not healing.

I’m unable to reach.

My heart is still so sore, I still long for greater things.

I want better but I do not know better, or where to find it.

I never meant to build this place that’s become my home.

I just started placing bricks by my feet ,

Yah know , so people around me would maybe bump into something and realize I was standing there.

This was simply to avoid being stepped on or ignored.

Once my feet were covered,

I had to place bricks up to my waste , so maybe men could see there was more to me than what was between my legs.

Not to mention I could still climb out at this point.

I continued to love people in any way I could.

I still helped them and gave when I felt I was able.

But soon I realized that people didn’t care that I was unable to move around and be myself.

Covered waste high in bricks..

Not as long as I could still supply them with what they wanted.

For this reason, I had to place more bricks that could stand just below my chest.

I wanted people to know that even though I was scared or maybe hurting still, I would always carry love.

I allowed this to happen until I saw that left me more vulnerable than ever.

Most who passed by were uninterested,

in simply just a heart and a brain.

Others saw it for what it was,

a woman who had become so fragile and scared,

that she had slowly been killing herself.

Which in so many words screams KILL-SHOT.

So now I stand here alone in this brick house I’ve built for my “safety”.

I’m sure my home looks beautiful from the outside , that’s how I designed it.

But the inside is dark and not very “homey”.

I believe the occasional visitors who peak over the top see glimpses of the inside.

The inside of my home gets very little light, no entrances or exits , occasional food , cigarettes , and drinks for a lifetime , with only my thoughts of self criticism, shame, and fear for conversation.

I would love to move away from this place.

But I seem to be trapped.

The walls are so close to my body for me to even attempt to climb out.

Hands occasionally reach in to pull me out but they haven’t always been real hands and being pulled out by a fake hand makes the fall back much worse.

So I don’t reach out anymore because it’s hard to tell the difference.

I’m not healed. I’m confined.