My house is full of walls. Not the brick and mortar type, Not the dry, papered, or paneled. You call them imaginary because you can’t see. But they are real.
They block my way every morning. They rise up in my path in the afternoon. They sometimes have doors that slam themselves shut In the dusk of the evening hours.
Every day I work to tear them down. Every night they rebuild themselves.
I’ve become tired. I’m exhausted. No one believes me.
My house is full of walls. Walls made of fear and anger. Walls made of anxiety and hatred. You can’t see them because they hide well. But they are still there.
Every now and then a window will appear. Every now and then I’ll find a door. Every now and then I think I’ve found my way through In the dawn of the morning hours.
Every night I cry at my failures. Every day I try again.
I need help in this battle. I’m fighting a war I can’t win. The help I need never comes.
I’m paying for the sins of another woman. Sins I can’t possibly repay. Yet the debt is owed and the bill is due. The Collector is here to collect.
My house is full of walls. Not the type that shelter from the storm. Not the type that keep the cold at bay. You tell me there’s no winter chill But I feel it all the same.
They whisper conspiratorially. They make you believe that I put them there. They make you believe that I started the fight. In the heat of the afternoon hours.
Every day I scream in agony from the pain. Every night my fingers bleed.
I’m screaming but no one hears me. I’m screaming but no one comes.
My house is full of walls. Not the brick and mortar type, Not the dry, papered, or paneled. You call them imaginary because you won’t see. But they are real.
They are so real.