Why do the scars deeply sliced keep me from loving you?

Why does the vivid memory stick like drying glue, waking up alone that day?

After the hours, the days, the sacrifice, the blindness, why can’t I stop?

If I tend to the moment, and I care for the business, and I toil for the life, why does your image flit across my mind?

How can I erase what I did, what I set out to do, I know I failed miserably, and couldn’t be forgiven?

Was there no measure of understanding to be had, to work through to the other side?

Don’t look at me, I’m smitten, a beast to the shadows, alive by night, hidden by day.

No need to worry about the here, the before, or what comes after this life, because I’ve got my fortress now.

Perched on a high cliff, deep in the mountains, centered on the island lake, crossing oceans just to reach.

Thick bricks are well fitted with mortar and the walls are as cold as ice.

Heavy doors made of oaken beams and bound by iron cannot be breached, and the towers rise high where the students of Scholomance craft my security.

Inside my fortress, my heart gleams safely, sanguine and thriving, and withering and dying.

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