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i am becoming the master of putting myself back together

when you break me with your carelessness.

fickle words and brittle bones can’t make a castle

but we can run in the ruins anyway,

and each time i trip and fall

on all of your glass promises,

i guess we can just call that growing up.

 

each cut may get deeper,

and take longer and longer to heal

but i am building myself something beautiful,

and what a joy it is to feel

that i am no longer a playground

for you to whittle down and break,

this is mine, a Parthenon,

a monument to the goddess and the good

 

so pray to me, if you want,

go make a sacrifice of yourself,

call it honesty or fidelity,

your discarded words will make pretty good bricks.