Love me just the same
Of course I'm not good all through. How hideous, how deformed, if I were! It's a matter of embracing this violence, willfullness, this capacity for treachery--stroking back its hair and looking it straight in the eyes. I think the part of me that you might call evil loves me, loves me like a star loves to burn. A while back it became something close to evil, because its desires were so consistently thrawted. (Desires? Satiation, self-preservation. I want them too.) Yet that evil was a pollution, a poison that suffused me-- something outside, something perniciously foreign. I have been burned clean since, and I don't ever want it back. It's a poison that kills slow, convulsions and cold sweats. Rats in the viscera.
Now that I'm standing bright in my own bones again, I got to work hard and close to ensure the old cracks don't burgeon. I got to keep on the right side of my own hellcat fury; got to keep the nerve to stare it down when it's in the wrong.
I want an ethic to guide this blood-thirst, this brutal force of will; this iron intention to protect my own beating heart.
I get that, I can do better in protecting you.
But really:
that's beside the point.
Now that I'm standing bright in my own bones again, I got to work hard and close to ensure the old cracks don't burgeon. I got to keep on the right side of my own hellcat fury; got to keep the nerve to stare it down when it's in the wrong.
I want an ethic to guide this blood-thirst, this brutal force of will; this iron intention to protect my own beating heart.
I get that, I can do better in protecting you.
But really:
that's beside the point.