Texty: Battery. Only The Diehard Remain. Empty Room.

There is a fire that keeps me running as my home burns and rejection
becomes my own obsession as reflection turns blank and whispers take
a deafening tone. Standing in the doorway of an empty room where
words find their place in the pillars of truth. We pray for escape,
escape preys on confession. Confession is admission that we are weak.
Weakness is not a question - it is exception, an exception to the
rules of defeat. Look beyond this tired face and take me breathing
to the keeper of my fate