When you look at me, what do you see?
I know what you see: you see a sweet summer flower, incapable of malice or deception.
And that’s awfully sweet, my dear, but you should know that even roses have their thorns.
So when you see my temper flares like a sharp, bright light, try not to be afraid.
I have felt it before, will feel it again.
I am not stranger to it.
And I will not bow to it.
After all: my own malice isn’t that heavy a burden, now is it?
J.A.S Writings 