I don’t make sacrifices. I am one.
I am the guttural secluded narcissism of a snarling, heaving heart. I am your sickness. I am your vice. I am your judgment, and your pain; your self-righteousness and resounding hypocrisy. I am the shadow of all your mistakes, creeping like the specter of a half-starved child crouched wild in the street. I am hollow. I am the twenty-fourth hour of the day—the hour that is dead, the phoenix hour, the hour that precludes some phantom of change in your daily façade. I am your hate and your prejudice, your perversion and greed. Let me call you by what name I will, for I know all the people you have ever been. Let me meticulously disassemble the fine architecture of your life, for your life is my plaything, and I am your god. Let me paint you in the blood of your ancestors and call you Irony. You shall be Myrrh. You shall be Sin.
From my lips by thine my sin is purged.
Alas! alas! my ruined sweetheart—for though my name be fine and sweet, yet all I touch falls to shame.