At night, I slept happy with wine--
found, at last, among a family that dined,
our laughter caught in the throats of fireflies,
For once, the world is safe and kind.

My dark was deep, but never hollow asleep;
not the absence of light, but the depth of it--
a hush that breathes and shelters.
As I smiled to the patter of loved feet

But it was not sleep that greeted me.
No dawn. No song. No dream.
Only a sting that bloomed,
and bloomed like a flower from my spine
a fire kindling red beneath skin,
growing, climbing, devouring.

My breath broke. My heart, silenced.
It was fire.
It was fire.
It was blood.
It was mine.

Behind me,
a knife.
Small.
Enough.

A smile is a dangerous thing;
its curve may cradle or cut.
Love and hatred--oh how close they lie,
And though you pushed it deep,
This knife is not yours.

It is not yours.
It is not yours.
I am not yours.

So I pulled the knife slow out of my crimson pool
Out from the agony I refuse to take hold of me

I pulled the knife and made it mine.

Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Daedalan, in the year 987 AF.