how it is that the pitiful don't want your pity.

they want... to be unpitiful.

but those moments when i've actually grieved for her, thought of her, there is only aching joy, stabbing envy.

i cry, not for her, for me. messed.

if she can tear her gaze from perfection to see and take thought now of all your children still alive in bodies of death, she cries. she cries for them, for me.

for now with veil lifted and curtain torn, she sees, she feels what she knows, she rests. where faith has turned to sight, where the cup of every unmet desire overflows, every lonely thought and every unrealized impossible promise no longer harasses her with doubt.

and here, where you've said it is finished, we are left undone. to walk... strive... crawl... wrestle. scream. over your silence.

but such is my selfish, blinding, furious pain.

i cry, not for her, for me.

i will obsess, attend to the pain, lick the wound. i see it, not her. i see you, this is your doing, father. what more are you teaching me to expect from a father. i thought i could see past my earthly father but how are you any better. you say you want my trust, it feels you want my distrust.

omnia vanitas. i have chased the fleeting moments of the ease of standing on my own two legs on solid ground. then you cripple me and bid me walk on water?! i want satisfaction, sufficiency. not you. fullness, not faith. you refuse to satisfy me with trash.

it is mercy, really.

i don't want your mercy.