Sarcasm and a shovel

i think a lot about my dad who taught me how to build the strongest walls; that constructing a stone face would convey my fortitude and power; that weakness was the gasoline that made the world go up in flames. i learned to be a jerk instead of getting hurt, and now i understand why i always fall for assholes.

i learned to love a man who did not want to touch my feelings, let alone his own; i held in high regard the man who had no idea how to. i crave approval from the person who never wants to see me struggle, since sarcasm and a shovel can bury any chance i might. and i'm addicted to the way we both pretend that nothing hurts. we've built a tall and sturdy fortress around our piles of upturned dirt.

what my father never taught me was how to take these stone walls down. nor have i ever learned the way to burn my lover's to the ground.