As soon as I walked in, I heard it.
I know that song. I know those words.
I hate it.
Every strum sends a pulse through my veins. It screeches like chalk on a board. The bulldozing melody penetrates my ears with disgust. With every beat, needles sink into my flesh. Every word sounds familiar yet distant.
I should know; I wrote it.
The birth of the song signaled internal conflict caused by something I did not sense before. Paranoia? Delusion? Masochism? Lust?
So addicted that I was willing to dive into a castle of thorns for approval from above. You stood high against the sun so that I can absorb the shadow you cast. Always in the dark. Always the villain. Always ready to throw myself over a fire so that you can keep yourself warm. It's cold where you're from. We thought that the mirror on the wall showed us what we are. The sun used to rise and set according to your will, and I stayed awake with the moon to watch you become something you're not.
I've cast out everything in your image yet you still haunt me.
And then there's this song. My words. Your melody. How ironic.
Silence it. Bury it. I've broken that mirror. Entomb the fragments. Never let it see the light of day. You can put the shards together, but you'll still see the cracks in your reflection.
The walls have been erected once again. Bring your army. Let them sing the songs of the dead. Let them march. Let them come.
I've plucked your rose, trimmed the thorns, and adorned it in my castle.