Steven, don't lose heart.

Did I scare you little one?
Did my honesty bite and pinch?
Even though I have to look up so far at you you are still small like a child to me.
With your beauty and crystal eyes does no-one ever confront you with honesty?

Chafe under the yoke of your convictions, but don't expect me to share the weight of your burden.
Rattle the bars of your cage with those long-fingered hands, but don't expect me to set you free. Because my prison is just as hard and tight as yours, but less visible.

My precious one, how the hurt in your eyes mirrors mine. I wish I could lay my head on your chest and hear your heart beat to make sure it hasn't been too cracked or broken, and you can tell me mine is whole.

Maybe we can't be friends anymore. Because we can't lie to each other, or to ourselves as well as we could before.

Food for thought...

“Do you take pride in your hurt? Does it make you seem large and tragic? …Well, think about it. Maybe you’re playing a part on a great stage with only yourself as audience.”

— John Steinbeck, East of Eden

Crush, Crushing, Crushed.

And I try why? Biological imperative? Human Condition?

Pretty soon I'm going to saw through the bones of my skull, find the part that makes love and emotion, and just start slashing.

And now it's too late.

Be careful what you wish for, because it usually ends in tears.
I would prefer carnal savagery to this wounded thing I see before me. This thing I used to love...