I've learned over the years that if you are hurt often, like I am,
Either you become the consummate victim-
Pitiful, cowering, sweet to fault, shamefully spineless-
Or you become wiser, a sharper version of yourself,
A bit meaner, a bit tougher.
You turn from white to gray- not sooty yet, but perhaps a bit charred around the edges,
Maybe even slightly carnivorous, like a flower deprived so long of sunlight that it begins to crave
Other things.
You're not entirely wrong, you know.
There is something in me that stalks the world, it's true.
But not you particularly, darling.
Don't flatter yourself.
I'm for bigger game;

I'm after the devil himself--
I'd like a word.