“Go away,” I hiss, as I coil in the shadows,
slowly and broodingly licking my wounds.
If you are to love me, then do so forcefully
to spite the resolve of my injury,
but you must not love me
for the well of hope that flourishes below my scars.
If you must speak to me,
then squelch the pain in my voice with deafening cold volume –
you cannot harmonize with the melody that I keep muted.
I will not stay with you to be loved for what you see in me,
you may only love me for what I show you.
So if you are of keen sight and intuition,
and can feel the joy and love within me,
then dull your senses –
and repress such imaginations.
You see, at some point,
an unattended injury, an unforgiven transgression,
will roost proudly within the cage of our being –
doing little else but blocking sunlight –
in essence, as “victim”
you become the ward of will power.
Enough time has passed, and you remain only a victim
because you coddle the victim,
spite the victim, mute the victim, hide the victim,
and turn the knife in the heart of your own creativity.
You have willed the victim.
You are the benefactor of all you will to be.
