Who the hell do you think you are? I know you as you do this aching in my heart for some sort of truth. You stretch right through me with such confidence I cannot understand the trust in your face that I have the answers. My mystery is my misery and the balm for your own unfathomable anguish. God. What have you for me? my answers, my relief? I don’t feel like the earth mother all you broken angels take me for. What sort of egocentric bastard has the idea that sacrificing myself to make them whole will make me stronger? Who set that value upon my blood, tears and time? How did my spirit, my love, all my lifetimes become the absolute rejuvination elixer? I am so angry with you right now. And somehow I know you know it. I hope you dream of it, my utter disgust at your selfishness. But we both know I will breath in your secrets like a dark summer musk settling through the screen. I will be what it is you need just by being, and as you wipe my blood from your wolfish grin I hope you are as thankful as i.