I am all harsh edges, my sharpness cuts at at every turn. My heart is full of rage, oh sweet, passionate rage. I conduct everything with anger. I lack the delicacy of a blooming flower, rather resembling a blazing forest fire. I never really inherited my mother’s compassion and patience. She said I’d grow to understand that part of myself with age. But how could I willingly understand it if I was so infatuated by the allure of my own fury? The flame consumed me more and more, until I was blinded by it. It’s suffocating, but I enjoy every bit of it. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I’ve associated myself with not only Wrath, but with Lust as well. But it’s a lust and craving for that flame ignited at full rage within my feeble body. How could so much be going on inside of me? I’ve drowned in myself. And Lord, is self-infatuation deadly.