Empath

Like bees to the honeypot, they're drawn in. If I'd have known I'd have honey oozing from my eyes, acting as amber-shaded prisms all too easily giving away the light from within, maybe I'd have scooped 'em out with a rusted silver spoon years ago. But they come, friends and strangers alike, to rest wearily on my shoulder, weaving their tongues towards the honey I can cry for them. Every gift comes with its own price, its own sacrifice, its own karmic balance. Every gift has a purpose of its own, whether we share that purpose or not.

I can feel it all. Every twisted knot in your belly. Every vein of hurt behind your eyes. We are all books, every one of us. But not all of us know how to read.

And I have cradled her in my arms. That frail little thing, covered in scars and beauty. I stroked her hair lovingly, sinking into that warm black hole she resides in. She rarely speaks. But I have familiarized myself with the energy of silent agony, and she brings me back into it. She is eternally a small child, curled in the darkened corner of her mind.

And I have refused a respectable man. I could feel every growing inkling but could not say a word. I could see the small moves happening in my mind moments before they happened. And when confronted, I had to refuse. The pure crystalline of his eyes, the hard line of his lips above his dark brown beard threaded with a lovely unexpected silver, sent me reeling. Driving away much faster than I needed to, my eyes burst with the sting of misplaced rejection.

And in those moments of yours, when comfort swings towards dissatisfaction, when adoration swings towards anger, I feel myself tilt to adjust to the shifting energy. Crowds are a rage of sex and cynicism. Intentions become clear almost immediately, secret relations and longings are exposed, honest-to-goodness kindness is easily distinguished.

To feel humans like this more and more makes me feel less and less like human.

But this is why I'm here. And I have plenty of Light to share.