I was in awe of the whimsies and romance.
I yearned for my art to comfort and soothe;
For my art to hold the listener’s hearthurt the way my hearthurt was held,
For my art to share imagery with songs of love,
To create beauty in death as he created it.

I wanted to be Hozier, but I have to be Poe, first.

I have to walk through my Inferno to reach such actualization.
My shadow still screams. Still cries.
Pieces of my younger self scattered in nine circles.

I have to talk to her and make peace with her.
I have to parent her.
I have to hold her.
I have to become one with her once more.

I will blood, guts, and gore my way through,
Just as the horrors led my way in.
The girl that wants to scream will scream and
Embrace the gross and the weird and the upset.

I will not become my own betrayer, no. So,
I am no longer my own betrayer, mine own Nth circle.
Treachery at mine own hands, no more.