Pick up your past and build yourself a wall to hide behind,
the kind of sanctuary that only comes from being chased until any kind of peace will do,
a lonely, stoney silence that allows you to slip under the surface of every bath that you take,
begging the water to take you to a place where nothing ever happened, and everything was good.
You take a million steps past the traditional twelve,
knocking every door on the street but never finding what you need,
and the water is such a waste of time,
because you beg for it to take your breath,
but it’s never as forgiving as you ask it to be,
never as kind as you plead for.