The Walls
A Poem about learning what I am made of.

I’ve taken them down.
The frames, the old pictures almost completely consumed
By time and termites.
The walls stood tall, stained, asking me what should they do
With that emptiness.
I had no answers.
We shared a stare but the silence had nothing to say.
I wanted to see who I was without the chiseled engravings,
To face myself without the portraits I’ve been mimicking,
Without a previously planned escape.
But the answers refused to come.
I felt my throat wet but speechless
As anxious as I was for explanations,
Solutions the universe seemed so good at creating.
Exploding stars and aimless meteors had a course
Had a reason to gravitate towards each other
And I, just a speck with empty walls, had not.
What would I string together without the yarns given to me?
What would fall apart without the right stitches?
And, most importantly,
Would I be strong enough to fill the walls better and bolder than before?

