Everyone said I'd never learn, never learn to be, to love, to forgive, never learn to forget, to forget the whip and forget the Cross, but I can't help but remember the gifts that forged my fire and banked my memory, and I want to teach them in return, teach them to laugh, teach them to sing, teach them to weave, weave a deep and crimson and shimmering purple tapestry that tells the tale that nobody else would, the tale of how the world was really made, a tale for another time because I still have so much left to teach, to teach to the bankers and mages and bindings and pages, to teach them the value of a word and the damage you can do with just one cut, a cut to the heart and a little bit left, into the lungs instead, punctured like a black balloon, heart-shaped and full of venom, venom to spare and venom to teach, because we can never leave this place, this little red schoolhouse at the end of time, where we wait for ourselves to show up and explain just what went wrong and what went right, right back to the beginning that everyone said I'd never learn.
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