It began with bricks, I guess,

built from the abuse above.

The big-smile baby knew no more,

no less. But she had no floor

or roof or wall, her

boundaries spliced,

her ego nil.

Her cement did set quite early.

It took years to even see that.

Dreams of locks not working

haunt the trusting times.

The little girl got trapped

with owning, booing crap.

To escape takes more than hair.

Say ‘boo’ to the witch that’s there.

This poem is number 24 in a month’s worth of poems for NaPoWriMo.

Inspired by today’s theme of masonry, mine is a Jung-inspired take on Rapunzel.