sorrow is not soon forgotten
nor bitterness, deceit-begotten
sadness is not often sweeter
than trust that's freely given
foolisheness is a weak reminder
that cruelty is seldom kinder

I squeel with exhileration and fear as my older brother speeds me around the playground on my tricycle. The weeping willow chortles uncharacteristically as we brushed his drooping tendrils. Then a HIS voice whips out of the wintry blue. "Come here!" it commands, not angry just inescapable. Behind the old tree we go and the tender caress of the old tree becomes the castigations of a confused father: *It is not right to scream like that. I am sure you will remember...*

I do. Here I sit white-knuckled -- my anger resisting the vortex which sucks me hungrily in. HE is the black hole. Around his careless and flagrant life my whole existence is arranged. *I will not be swallowed, that I promise you! I would rather die than let you suck me in* so my rage, which protects me still, and which I wield with icy precision to ward off the threat of nothingness, whips out of control and scars those I most love. *you will not see me hurt. I would rather die than let you win*

Fuck you I need you so much to say I may be...