Fortress

You walk toward the fortress

like history forgot,

like I didn’t rebuild myself

from the pieces you dropped.

You want entrance?

Nah.

This door remembers a lot.

Every lie.

Every pause.

Every promise you shot.

This is the fortress forged from the scars you made.

You don’t just knock—

you EARN what you crave.

And every path to me is guarded

by the women who stayed.

Laura says:

“Try truth. The kind that cracks your defense.

Not the kind you bend to protect your intent.”

You freeze.

She smiles.

ACCESS DENIED.

Sheila says:

“Your aura betrays you before you speak.

Try honesty—

if you can stand the heat.”

Your pulse stutters.

ACCESS DENIED.

J says:

“State your purpose. Clean. Precise.

No crying. No chaos.

Stand tall or think twice.”

You stutter.

ACCESS DENIED.

Bri says:

“Respect and consistency—

simple, basic, free.

Show either one,

I might let you breathe.”

You fail both.

ACCESS DENIED.

Jackie says:

“Your story shifts. Your plot don’t stay.

Your words and actions argue all day.

Try clarity—

or walk away.”

You blur.

ACCESS DENIED.

Christal says:

“If you can’t face the wreckage you left behind,

you ain’t crossing this line.

Heal your shadow

before you approach mine.”

You flinch.

ACCESS DENIED.

Now it’s just me—

threshold-born, unmoved.

The final door you thought

would open

because you “grew.”

I don’t want excuses.

I don’t need regret.

I only want the truth

you ain’t given yet.

You brought chaos—

I needed peace.

You brought hope—

I needed consistency.

You brought longing—

I needed presence.

You brought words—

I needed evidence.

You failed the test

before you even knew.

You weren’t locked out.

You were filtered out,

sorted by the gates

you couldn’t talk your way around.

This fortress wasn’t built from hate—

it’s healing crowned.

Brick by brick

from every battleground.

You thought coming back

would unseal the past,

that one soft look

would reopen the latch.

But here’s the truth

you never grasped:

The door didn’t close

because I changed—

it closed

because you never did.

And here’s the part

that breaks your pride:

The passcode wasn’t spoken.

It wasn’t a plea.

It wasn’t “miss you,”

or “hear me,”

or “see me.”

It was simple.

It never changed.

And it was right in front of you

the whole damn time:

The passcode was written in braille—

and your hands never learned

how to feel anything real.

ACCESS DENIED.

FORTRESS SEALED.

CHAPTER CLOSED

BY YOUR OWN FAILURE TO HEAL.