I accuse the man, traitor.

And you call him son.

I curse the man, plague.

And you do embrace.

I anguish his crimes.

And you wear them on.

I blame the man, hatred.

And you: beloved, beloved son.

I dispatch the ring of the running father.  I would rather know the accusation in my heart.  I cast off the robe of his regard.  Regard me as the slop from which I've come.

I take the echoes in my head and clutch and cling to their fleeting.  The red red violence and teeth in my flesh, this is what I know.  The prison of myself.  And so I add my voice to the chorus in my head.  Idiot, piece of crap, worth no one and nothing.  And I love this.  This is the shackle I know.  Oh pain, dear friend.  Do not leave.

And you offer freedom.  Oh dreadful horrid freedom of the open stretching plain. You would shed the walls of my prison for your name and your name for me.  But I clutch to the names I would give myself.  Your ravaging freedom removes the mirror from the window.  How dare you take me from me and to give me you.

How do you call the rebel, son?  What madness drives you?  I, the dog that returns to his vomit and you would wash me.  You have adopted your son's murderer and given him the inheritance.  And when I discard the royal crown for mud you give me more grace.  I may be base, but you are insane.

You bear the insanity of the foolish lover and yet in you this is wisdom, the wisdom before the expectant hosts.  You turn the adulteress into the virgin bride so that none can deny the glory of the groom.

Oh how I should run to you, but look, you have run to me.  Oh how I should cry, but see, you have cried for me.  Oh how I should die, but oh great mercy, you have died for me.

Take from me my names for myself.  And give me yours.

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