Machiavelli spoke of prophets, and surmised that it is only those prophets armed by something that have seen their message spread.

Arm me then, arm me with your nightmares and your suffering and your nights filled with wailing at the sky.

Arm me with the anorexic teenage girls, with the empty eyes of the hobo at the liquor store, with the broken hopes of a *******.

Give me your shame at the mirror's lies, give me your self-inflicted scars, give me that loathing for yourself.

Give me that need for one more shot, give me that hopelessness after ***, give me the knowledge that Mom is never coming back.

Clothe me with the skins of a hundred thousand suicide victims, pour over me the tears of a million hungry souls, burn me with the fire of ten million hearts broken under the heel of a dying world.

Do these things, and you will see me become what you've been trying to turn me into all these years.