“Get up.” The dramatic natured character-of-a-woman has no need for priestly confessions. In silence I choose different causes of my varietel paralysis. My spirit is made-up; wrought, holding onto cause as if it were eternal, while each one petitions for a chance to fight. Instead they are scorned live, destruction being a form of creation: I fondly find myself useless, aborted potentiality. She looks down, pale skin, beauty-soft face. A spitting image; my mirror reassures me that this is no way to live. Manipulation is her own leading role, upstage left, pristine delivery. I sit back, and take the dichotomy. “Maybe one day we’ll have a real daughter, that loves God and us.” “One violent utterance is all I deserve, today, everyday, a decade.” Diction and demeanor are like passive doctors, giving medicinal doses of covert negativity. Oxymoronic lecture, if there is such a thing, has developed a transient quality over the years, nonetheless, it still hurts to hear with deaf ears. Her art is repression; her vengeance: rhetoric. It is me, and it is her. We coexist by necessity.