He visited today.  In a refreshingly different, and yet still awful way than before. Different in that I recognized him, and awful in that recognizable, or not, he still exudes awfulness—like a whispering ghost, criticizing my every move.  

I saw his face—I felt his disdain.  

He stared at my openness to anger and asked me to hate.

He gaped at my hopes of the hour and asked me to fear.

He mocked my sadness.  

Marked my weakness.

Masked my gladness.

And raped my good.

He marveled at my tears and said, “Don’t stop.  You should always be finding more reasons to flow.”

He flirted with my fatigue and said, “I’m glad to find you here.  I’m glad to remind you of your name.”

He grabbed me by the hand, wanting to lead me back into his dark—back into his dance.

But I pulled away and said, “No.  I see you today and your story is not worth my time.”