Its ironic, how those who would say they care for you, take the time to try and talk to you--when all you hear, is the sound of blood curdling tears...

With memories of the past, to fill the gaps of yesterday today--to make you sickly and feel torn in two again, and all the while to wonder when again you will feel that of the grey skies you so used to defend youself--to not feel...

To be only nearing the top of the stairs, that would lead to some form of salvation--only to be thrown down the stairs by a black hand covered in evil, in the disguise of someone who in all irony, decided to break their blessed silence; to speak again with the same loving tone that threw you down in the first place.

I see stairs heading down, and my souls old wounds, as they were before--without the bandages covering them... 

An .

Down and down I know I will go, and when I come up again--nobody knows.

I must cling to that, which broke my multiple captor's gaze before--silence, and contempt for their evils.

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