is it not strange how our own feelings and motives are seemingly so transparent to ourselves,
yet are vague and obscure to others?
it is even more peculiar that we may cite the faults of others with facility,
yet be blind and ineffectual to our own flaws.
between the moments, i have made a science of inscrutability
and have calculated it out to superfluous precision.
it is the curse i have incurred of my own volition.
you are as the cure for my sickness,
but a cure i have denied myself out of an ill-placed sense of honor or dignity.
i ask a boon of you: i ask that you encourage me to listen more intently to the fragrant breeze that is your voice, that you help me to quell my own ego and contain the odd brand of cruelty that is my tattoo.
i am the sinning saint, the diabolical angel, the savior that destroys, neither this nor that.