A paralysis of devotion, condoned by the historical drone of unresolved emotion. Every nerve ending cauterized to prevent my soul from being further traumatized. I hate myself for it. I relinquish my strength and fall upon the dagger razor sharp with questions, bloodied by my imagination. I am ashamed of it. I mediate my reaction and focus the need for tears into a crack in my heart’s armor. I relish the burn, screaming in welcome for I’d rather be ravaged with anger than rejection. I pity myself for it. I spit fire into the ink that bleeds with brokenness even though all appears whole and wholesome. I squeeze out every sigh evoked and paint the paper with my desperation. Someday, I will forgive myself for it.