"Like you, I am unforgiving. It might be a perversion of my blood, inherited like sore." —Recommended by Jared
And, yet, each morning a fireheart grief in the body coming out of sleep. The listening to the smoke as if fills and weeps inside the chest, choking strength out hands weighted, dangling. We wonder where else it lives before it fills the body up. We assume it comes inside through the hole that promises invasion.