It was the look.
Lunch? Dinner? —Breakfast?
It was contained in that look.

I stand on my tower,
the one made of steel
and iron and all stuff tough,
and I laugh at all those
who dare to think they
can penetrate these walls.

It was the look.
Aren’t you going to ask?
It was contained in that look.

I sit at the table,
the one behind
the wall of the tower
made of steel
and iron and all stuff tough,
like the shields around
my beating heart
and tormented soul,
and I chuckle to see
the few who try
to scale the walls
and enter (only
a dungeon awaits).

It was the look.
Take me with you?
It was contained in that look.

I now hide in
the closet of my
room where the strong
oak door will keep
me safe; this room in
my tower
made of steel
and iron and all stuff tough,
like the warm dagger (hand)
at my throat
or the metal lock (hand)
against my cheek
stealing my breath.
I sit here
and giggle to see
the one who has
spent hours upon
hours, minutes
upon minutes, trying
desperately to
break one brick free.

It was the look.
Forget me never?
My undoing was contained in that look.