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It's a sticky situation.

Well I should listen when people warn me, but those people are less trustworthy than the ones they warn me against. It's terribly hard to fill the space where the sickness threatens to upheave the contents of my stomach. Because it's more than something physical; it is that physical pain which is caused by the striking, shocking blow of something emotional.

I battled with those feelings once, and was content to think that their benefactor never knew. And when I find that he did, and was hiding his knowledge AND his feelings from me the entire time... well, it's enough to make a person a little sick.

Nothing I write is safe anymore. The contents of my heart are no longer sacred, respected, or even secret. But I don't actually feel violated; they were there, publicly, for him to devour with his eyes and soul and heart and to lock them away until... until now.

It's a sticky situation.

Sing to me one last time.