the memory of a place,
held in faces and scenery and
just walking on old paths:
and a clear recall, now,
of why i had to leave.

of all the emotions
capable of being argumentatively
and clearly communicated,
nothing shuts me down faster
than shame.

you lay it on my heart
like it's nothing,
like you can't even hear the words
or their meanings and
wouldn't hear my response anyways.

i can build walls again,
i suppose;
i would prefer not to, but
when my hand is forced,
granite is the best way to go.