It Is, At The Most Basic Level,

One Really Ought To Be Afraid Of Self-torture. But It Tempted Me. It Begged. The Dark Place That My Mind Was Fast Becoming Blends, In My Memory, With The Dark Womb Of Church: The Chant, The Fugue Of Prayer, The Strange Erotic Energy That Carving A Very Small Cross Into My Thigh With A Nail Had Brought.

And Yet You Are All That You Have, So You Must Be Enough. There Is No Other Way.

...someone Speaks In Soft Tones To Me And Says I Am Psychotic, But It's Going To Be All Right. I Put On My Hat, Unperturbed, And Ask For Some Crayons.

After A Lifetime Of Silence, It Is Difficult Then To Speak.

Hatred Is So Much Closer To Love Than Indifference.