Dear Faith,

You taught me to balance my illness with my creativity, but when will you teach me to overcome my demons? I only ask because they have nearly devoured my heart and my soul is still in pieces. Your exotic beauty arouses me every time we meet and I love the way you wear those designer pumps on your feet. I tell people, with schoolboy pride, that you look like a porn star—and I mean that in the best way, because you know I respect porn. I love my ability to make you smile, even under the most dire circumstances, and how you tilt your head in hesitant agreement. Our visits are my new merriment and I have no fear giving you full disclosure—the same disclosure I have so often struggled with otherwise.

When do I get to know where you are from and why you are here, you angel calming my life? Do you suffer as I do? You are too fond of pushing me in a direction too beneficial to yourself sometimes. I can understand why, but it displeases me. I wish you were mortal. My pedestal has no care in the world that you have been perched there for some time, but I wish—severely I wish—I could climb up there with you. Is that why you have stopped taking my hand?