Walls Built of Words #

there are walls now,
ones i never asked for, but somehow,
i built them anyway.
it wasn’t all at once.
each word, each sharp tone,
added another brick.
“shut up,” they say, and another one goes up,
“you ruin everything,”
and the wall gets higher.
i tried—
god knows i tried—
to talk to ma, to di,
to dad, but the thorns,
they scrape, they dig deep.
and it hurts every time.
it didn’t start this way.
there was warmth once.
i remember that, don’t i?
but now?
now the cold sets in,
like the walls around me freeze my breath,
my hands shivering when i reach out,
wondering if it’ll ever feel warm again.
they tell me they hate my face.
what did i do?
what did i ever do?
every word they say,
it carves something into me,
something i can’t erase.
and i’m not any better,
i know that.
i try to share things—
small joys, little sparks.
but it’s like they don’t even hear.
like the moment i speak,
their eyes glaze over,
and i’m alone again.
they tell me i should’ve never come home,
that they’d rather not see me.
they say things no one should say,
and it sinks deeper than i can stand.
there’s a wall here,
a wall i thought would protect me,
keep me safe.
but all it’s done
is keep me out.
i can’t reach them,
not anymore.
i wonder,
was it ever real?
the love?
or was it always just
something they held over me,
like a leash,
like a chain?
i built these walls
to keep the pain at bay,
but all they’ve done
is make it colder.