You are my unhappiness. You are my sickness. You feed me, and when you turn your back, I gorge on you. My tender tempest, your billowing is in my direction. Your gusting diffuses against hungry skin.
I watch you in your furry; I find myself salivating – you muster up the depths of your artificial reserves, emptying them at my provocation – this service is too great, the honor is too extensive.
I make you move. You do not wish it. You never wished it. You railed against it. You rail against me still, but in my innumerable mercy I do not hold you off.
You seek my flesh, my darling, you shall have it. It is yours to prepare, though I know at the moment of feasting you will turn your nose away in disgust, hand it back to me.
But our fingers interlock and the transaction is sacred.
Our minds engage and the transaction is sacred.
You are foolish and the beholding is sacred.
You are unnerved.
I drag you down, but only in jest. It is better if you stand. It is better if your precipice grows taller. It is better if you look down and make your degradation complete.
You stoop for me! You strip yourself of wisdom for me! You fly off the handle for me! Am I not your handler, young something of substance? Have I not become your anchor?
Never fear. Your head is never submerged. You belong to the flames. I would not quench them. You would quench me, and your fingers collide with my flesh and that is sacred.