Sometimes I think I cannot tell the difference between sadness and anger. I grieve, I despair, I rage and think on wrath, but it goes nowhere. Hurt me. I beg you. I will throw guilt upon myself for it and beg forgiveness on the world's weakest knees. Remember for me the way it was for you assure me I cannot remember properly myself. Teach me your truth. At times, I may even choose to believe it drink the effortless Kool-aid and meet myself in the mirror with a mouth blood red. Mostly my truth remains mine. Always I will keep my own counsel. Someday I may well close all the doors that matter, or find my feet and let them go where they will. And likely they will choose to softly walk elsewhere. What, in all the circles of hell, could make you think the loss is mine, not yours?