The walls are thick. Dusty. Closed. I reached through the molasses of the voice I tried to carry to you, but found that the sound slipped through my fingers. I watched as the walls cried. I dropped to my knees and wondered when the pain would begin. Was my heart empty? Where were the angels I had hoped to find here? I listened and thought I understood, but again found an emptiness behind the wooden doors of my heart. Sometimes I heard knocking through the walls. I called out your name. I listened to my own voice in the silence. How long had I been here? The room I had carved out for myself was one of bone and blood and thundering tears; tears that crashed upon the dirt as if they themselves carried the weight of my soul with every pounding drop. And I waited here, in this place I carved out for myself, listening to my own hands digging at the dirt. Clawing at the walls. My own voice echoed back and sometimes I thought that I was another person and I had conversations with myself. Yet, as I looked into the mirrors surrounding me, I knew that I was myself. And I was here, in the dark, in the dust, in the faded image of my own mind. I called out your name. I called out my name. This, I did, until I could not feel anything. That which is nothing was my solace. And I hold it close to my chest. Though it still seeps through my fingers, and the sound echoed for eternity, I find comfort and peace in the walls that cry . . . in the walls that are closed to my screaming heart. I breathe in the dust that I have gathered for years. And I wonder . . . how from sadness and sorrow I have built a kingdom from which I protect myself from the sound of your name . . .
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And here . . . the walls thick, dusty, and closed . . .
I'll say it loud here by your grave / those angels can't
ever take my place
somewhere where the the orchids grow / I can't find those church bells
that played when you died - 'Playboy Mommy', Tori Amos