I bet you think I know no anger like yours, love.
Oh, but it's just not true.
I know the anger of pride.
I know the hatred of righteousness.
And you know only the indignance of the broken.
The strong are angry in a different way, you know.
The whole, who have paid their price in blood to be so,
We know a rage without end, without shores
A black roiling sea.
It is careful contained most of the time,
For we have worked hard not to need it.
We know its power. We know its brutality.
We know it knows no remorse.

So when you needle the part of me that's proud
That it rose from its ashes
And clawed its way through funeral soil to light,
Tread lightly, my foolish dear.
Understand this:
That I never lied when I said all things have their balance in my head.
That I told you true when I said that for every love there is equal hatred,
Every kindness equal cruelty.
The capacity for one makes the other exist.
And so think now, back on all I've forgiven in you, in everyone.
Think now on my quick absolution of every sin, no matter how offensive.

Let me tell you a story, before you say "Talk to me when you've realized you're playing the victim."
Let me tell you a nice little fairytale from my past, all rosy with age and remembering
But still sharp.
Let me tell you-

Once my father fought with me. He said, "You're always playing the victim."
And he told me to go home
In the middle of an enormous city.
In my 6x tee and little black shoes, I cried.
But not for long.
You see, I didn't sit down and take it,
I went home.
I called his bluff and as my mother turned her car around to drive back to the train station and hug me close,
He said, "Call me when you want to see me again."
And stormed out,
And I sat and waited, swinging my little black shoes
Because my feet didn't reach from the bench to the floor.
When Mommy came and scooped me up,
She cried because I'd been alone.
But I didn't cry anymore.

And I didn't call him for a year.