Somebody has been reading too much poetry.

Sometimes I look up from my toil, sit back on my haunches, fix the Almighty with an exasperated eye, and say...

You know this isn't going to work. I can't do any of it. I am a square peg in a swiss-cheese world, an odd duck, a curious flower too strange to purchase and too alive to be happy on the shelf. And you send me out here like this in my weakness, like a butterfly in a hailstorm, like an ice cube in the Sahara, with no guarantee of success beyond the assurance that you will be with me as I melt. I'm just going to mess things up. Weakling that I am there will be destruction in my wake. Other souls will suffer for my sins.

So why even bother?

What could you possibly be getting at?

And wouldn't it be easier to get there without me?

My beautiful dissonance, my lovely jagged jewel. I put you in that smooth, flat world because some of my children have forgotten how to bleed.
As you hold each other's hearts, you'll find your own are lighter.
I sent you out into the storm, fragile bloom, my winsome butterfly, because I find your weakness beautiful,
and know that dying eyes will glimpse your
soft defiance
and find the will to look for me again.