An analogy is like a writing desk

I have my reasons for the wall. Some people have gotten inside it simply because I opened the gate, and they strolled on in like it was an open house, kicking stuff over and knocking things around and generally fucking shit up and never paying for the damage. Some people have tried to pry their way in, removing brick by brick by brick, only to find I’m adding more bricks as they take them away. And some are in the entryway, standing somewhat awkwardly with their coat in their hands, wondering if they should get comfortable or just put their coat back on and leave. Some people talked to me from across the moat, listened to me, shared things with me, maybe they swam across once or twice just to hear me better, and eventually were invited inside. Sure, maybe they accidently knocked over a lamp once or twice, but I can get over a lamp. I can’t remember how some people have gotten inside because it seems like they’ve always been there, giggling and whispering and playing and crying with me since before I can remember.
I have my reasons for the wall. But I wish I didn’t have to have it in the first place. I wish I never built it. I wish you never built yours, either.
We all have our reasons for being guarded, some more than others. And it’s not a terrible idea to have some alarm systems in place. But I’m tired of keeping it up, of worrying about it. Bored, even. I don’t know what it means to not have those walls up; how to do that. But people aren’t paying attention to each other, anyway. We’re all walling ourselves away so that—what?—we just end up alone in a room by ourselves.

I’m tired of feeling delicate.
I’m tired of pretending I’m not.
I’m tired of being treated like I’m not.