I don't know what I'm hoping for- if I am still capable of feeling hope- or how you will react to the changes in me. Maybe you'll be annoyed by my antics and finally give up? Maybe you will realize the futility of trying to salvage this soul of mine, that is bent and torn and sown together with large uneven stitches and scraps of recycled material, an image of the body which contains it? Or- even better- you'll see me for who I am, and watch me sink into the hell I knowingly and willingly created for myself, waving a handkerchief, whispering "bon voyage", sickly-sweet? This could happen if you had even the smallest crumb of a desire for self-preservation, but you don't. Or am I being conceited or boastful, thinking the affection I have for you and that which you claim to have for me is strong enough to have a fatal consequence? I have too many questions and you are seeking answers. I am a spark and you seek water, and you've found its softness in the caress of its delicate waves but part of you is still burning, you are so very combustible, so very influenced by those you love, and I have taken advantage of this to lodge the flame of my fury in the cracks that run through your soul. You are burning inwards, the damage unseen by your forgiving eyes. When the smoke begins to billow out in soft tuffets of greys and browns it will be too late.
I tell you to beware of treacherous seas but they are your best refuge from fire. It will be dark without its light but you can close your eyes when you're underwater. Let the swift currents be your guide, you who are blind and delusionnal.
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