In The Abstract

Up and down and up and down, the wall comes up, all around and you tear it down, down to the floor in bricks and cement and crumbs of fear. A single word builds it up again and then... you take your hammer of a heart and smash it to bits, you destroy that boundary with a single... kiss. Why does is go up in the first place if you can tear it down so well? Once I was like Humpty Dumpty, and OOOH! I fell. I fell down, down, down into a tunnel, a funnel, a tornado of sorts, where bits and pieces of my debris were scattered and bent and broken to pieces. Eventually the wounds heal, but it takes time, and you glue them together so very well. Why do I keep ripping them apart, I wonder? I don't want these open wounds, yet everytime they heal I find a new type of damage, not easily concealed anymore. Perhaps I am beginning to institutionalize myself to... pain? No. Well, the wall is down, tumbled to the ground. What will be the magic word to keep it that way?