We all desire unconditional love. We crave it; such deep understanding, a connection with—or maybe worship from—another human so powerful that we may commit the most obscene of evils and emerge dripping in blood and sorrow to the eyes of forgiveness. That we may lie spent and empty after a fury, and still feel a cool hand mop our brow, hear soothing whispers, taste drops of water poured over our Soul. 

It is the ultimate release of pressure, of our human struggle, to know that no matter what we do, we will be loved and held and sheltered and nourished. 

We yearn to live a life of mistake, misunderstanding; our psyche misanthropic till we become aware of our own repulse. We, unlike so many evil people, know and understand ourselves to be evil. 

The joy—to do and be all of this, and know that still a child will take us by the hand and skip along and tell a story. The joy.

To forgive the primal sin from the born sinner knowing they cannot change is the act of absolute power. You take away their identity with your own mercy; your tolerance becomes their prison. Generals and Kings and Murderers can only claw at dreams of such power. 

And we all crave it, to live the life of ultimate surrender to the forces that rip and tear at us. To give ourselves to the easy road, one too quiet for thoughts and doubts. We crave that we may do so without the judgement or loss of our loves. 

The only thing that holds us together is our fear of losing our kin. Not family—for nobody born to you has chosen to be so, and nobody chooses who they birth—but kin. 

When I choose to be better than my worst, it is out of insecurity that my worst is not enough for my kin. 

When you choose to see me for my worst and understand what we share, you see Soul in the way few have. See the worst in the eyes of your kin, and it will remind you there is more to see in the eyes of your enemies than you would like to admit. They have as much hell to face from beyond the brittle rim of their skull as you do beyond the hollowness of yours. 

We all wish we could grow horns and flaming red eyes, just to prove that we’d be loved anyway. 

I wonder if the Devil ever wishes for a halo.