Quiet. Silenced. Violent little knives of emotion too potent to speak. Build a wall of knives and stories around the strangled hopes. Feel the hilts against your back and know the blades face out, out, out to your enemies, out to those who would do you wrong. And out to those who wouldn't. Both ways. Keep one in, keep another out, let none through either side. A wall built high and close to keep you safe from pain and suffering and joy, for you are too fragile for joy. Joy might shake the mortar from the wall around you and leave you bare and leave you alone and leave you afraid. Fear makes you build walls.

But walls fall.
And walls forget what it is you built them for.

Knives are forged for fighting but these knives are far too small. Their blades are sharp and their points sting quick, but you’d never search for blood. You’re young, too young, when the first blade shows, in your wall of safety, shows its point turn in, not out, out, out, but at you and the lies you tell yourself. Pluck it from the wall, bury it deep in the soil beneath you. If anyone saw this blade, this rebellious blade turned against you, they might know the truth. Bury it where you never have to see it again and no one will ever find it.

But you only gave yourself so much room.
And knives are hard to sit on.

Pocks and dents and creases form against your soft, protected flesh. Rounded hilts and sharper hilts, hilts inlaid with gems. They press against your back, your hands, your quiet, folded features and stain your skin with shame and fear as the cold creeps nearer and closer and more violating. The ground beneath you shimmers of metal and regret and the walls grow thicker every day, closer to your soul. You hurt.

But you’re too proud of the walls you've built.
Even if they **** you.