Those three years of isolation
Which held the utmost hatred and contempt
The remembrance of the skin's contamination
And the rare pity that came and went

That glorious loathing
Which I prided myself for..
(The mask)
"My first unfeeling scrap of clothing"
Hung so preciously on the door.

The legends that carried on in the darkness
Whispered the words of the comming end
Nothing created could save me from this
When I would be titled "the fiend".

Still, I smirk so awkwardly
At the irony of the situation:
You would usually complain to me;
Now I tell stories of my devestation

Perhaps I've lost my pride?
But only for this single moment
It's still unnerving to think about all the times I've cried
What blood should be my atonement?

I still remember...

All these years of isolation
Which hold the utmost hatred and contempt
I still remember the skin's contamination
And the rare pity that came and went