How do you do it all on your own?
A fortress built of broken glass,
each shard a memory, a ghost
of love that turned to dust.

You wear your wounds like armor,
each scar a badge of battles won.
But beneath the stoic mask,
a heart that bleeds for what it's lost.

I crave the touch you've learned to shun,
a touch that's become a burden.
You've been touched too much, you say,
while I hunger for even a crumb.

You hold the ghosts of those who've gone,
a graveyard within your soul.
When you say you hurt, they can't deny,
their echoes ringing in your every howl.

Afraid, you pound your fists on walls,
creating holes for yesterday's calls.
Cradle...