Apr. 28, 2003 - 10:45 a.m.
I walked over your grave today. The ground shuddered under my feet. I heard the echo of that shake in your heartbeat. It raised my skin.
And the dry wind, the tornado that is at the core: hot, burning, searing, oppressive air that stings with every touch, rose up from the dust at my feet and battered at my form, begging, pleading, demanding entry. I stood silent and let you rend me with claws and teeth, scraping away at me. Blood dripped down from razor slices.
I loved you. I love you. But I won't let you in.
You have anger and passion and power, and it builds and builds and builds, yet you hide behind this apathetic mask in frustration that eats away at you.
I hope the facade shatters and you devour the world. At least there will finally be a moment of honesty. You value that, don't you?
I won't save you. I cannot save you. You have no true desire to be saved. And the only thing that traps you is your own fear. You are afraid to walk in the wash of your own power. You fear only yourself.
Eventually that heart will stop and you will become the dead thing you model.
