The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead. The dead keep it.The way is shut.

There is no way back. I know that. I saw to that. I cannot be who I was and I don't want to be who I was.

But there is no stopping how I am made, and no stopping what still runs through me like poison tainting the water in my veins.

Sometimes I feel the dead move through me like smoke or air, I breath them in and exhale them.

Sometimes I can feel, like an electric current, death rise up through me like a frustrated but understanding lover.

Sometimes I remember the things from before. The wastes. The dark beyond darkness where the wrecks and ruins gain new life. The tree made of legs and arms and spines that grew mysteries fed on the blood of the magicians. The wispy touch of a thousand souls holding you in cautious regard. The heavy, horrific love of the ones that live below.

Sometimes, I forget it all. Sometimes, I am haunted.

Who do I have to talk to? Who can listen and help me?

I sealed the way shut as one of the dead- I followed the light out of the dark. I continue to follow the light though when I stumble, I remember the dark places I used to hide in. In the light, there is no where I can hide.

I do not want to go back to the dark.

But the dark is still a tempting drug.

But also....yes. I cannot, will not, and do not want to go back the way I came.

But still, the reminders hurt.