They can make me cry out in pain . . .
They have done so before and will do so again.

They can make me bleed . . .
Dark, red blood without the succor of death.

They can make me run and hide
And hate myself for my cowardice.

They can make me give up
The people and things I love most.

But they cannot make me forget
What we had and the way it was;
In this lies their doom . . . and mine.