If I don't take them,
they will never let me leave.

These pills meant to raise
a magic wall around me
built on the strength of
1,000 milligrams.
A chemical fortress
that crumbles
with the breath of words
whispered from the eyes
that wept when the key
turned behind me.

They see me, a cliche,
bruised, battered, bleeding
and broken,
against the wall.
Not the wall that fell.
This wall with the key
they won't turn.
This wall they constructed
with every fist
that storied my youth.

No one wants to speak
of what the wall did
- is doing - to me;
only whisper about how I
need the wall,
these walls,
this massive sanctum
to protect me
from me.

If only they would
stop crying,
stop whispering
long enough,

they just might realize