It has not been my habit to speak to you - or even listen. Perhaps that is part of our problem.
A hard reminder, a harsher task master, your call at my door went from gentle frappe to insistent pounding. You're inside now, still pounding. I do not recall inviting you in, perhaps the smarter, secret me handles those types of invitations.
You've made yourself at home. You've coiled your darkness around my own. Yours is colder though, more certain, rooted where I do my heavy lifting. Branched beyond and through, your chill immobilizes what I must see, what I need to remember. The pain must come from my resistance to do so.
I watch you now, now that I know who you are, from back here. I childishly hope you will give up and leave. You will not. Not this time. There will be no future visits, you will not leave until what has been undertaken is completed.
I will thank you in the end. Even from back here I know that.