I lock the door upon myself and swallow any cries
and beat the walls with fists made strong with resolve
for I do not want this life of richness
of a constant cacophony of want
I envy the stoic rock with water battering against it,
and massive gnarled roots that hold fast in raging winds,
and I want the breaking to be clean and complete,
and the blood to cool,
Until I can stand behind my sealed and barred doors
in statue like silence,
and feel only what little has been left behind,
like salt rings.
And perhaps someday I may lean against the locked door,
and let it hold me up.