Brick

Run my knuckles across the bare brick, grazing the skin.

Trying to avoid the temptation to pull the whole hand away and then fiercely smash it straight back into the harsh red and brown rock.

My animosity is not with the brick, nor the structure it supports. 
It’s what the brick represents – all the time spent wallowing, the anger, the frustration, the dull numbness, the chance to explode and strike out at an inanimate object, not hurting anyone apart from possibly myself. 

But will it solve anything?  I don’t think so.  Will it be cathartic?  Possibly?  Will the pain post-punch be worth it?  Or will it purely serve as a brief physical reminder that I got really angry one day and had to hit something. 

Am I like that?  Is that me?

I punch the wall to see.