Lost, am I.

Who, at times, do you look to for comfort and intimacy?

While, at others, for pain and torment…

What, at times, drives you to gleefully crush and obliterate your opposition?

While, at others, to contently lie down before the battle even begins…

Where, at times, do you find the ability to love men for their noble potential?

While, at others, struggle desperately for the tiniest semblance of respect for them…

Why, at times, can you engage the mirror like a lover, pouring endlessly over every line with pure adoration?

While, at others, wash your hands with your head bowed, unable to meet your own gaze for even a moment…

How, at times, are you able to hold the very fabric of reality in the palm of your hand like a mouse?

While, at others, feel as a mouse, cradled in the hand of the same reality…