Moth to the Flame

The moth seeks out the flame; it has no choice, it doesn´t care about anything except the light.

It is the same way that a man encountering his flame is drawn to it, knowing full well that the journey is going to end badly and someone is going to get burned.

I have a type, it seems. 

Everyone has a type. 

It is a pattern.

My types are strong-willed women with invisible scars and high intelligence.

Something in me wants to heal their wounds, absorb their pain, protect them. Make them whole again.

Something else in me wants to hurt them, but lovingly and tenderly, with consent and respect.

I respect women; I believe in my heart that the world would be a much better place if it were run by them rather than us men.

There's a good reason the number of female serial killers and rapists is low when compared to men, and it isn't because of our bigger muscles or their lack of penetrative genitalia.

It is because our need to control women, coupled with the inability to temper it with kindness and respect, inevitably ends in disaster as the two clash.

Women serial killers aren't looking for control; they're looking for revenge and payback.

Usually, against a man, there are no female serial killers who only prey on women.

My flames have been varied, but they've all shared the same invisible scars in some form or another.

I realize now that I'm repeating a pattern that started when I was born. 

I am the healer who can only exist through the act of healing; if there is nothing to heal, then my existence has no purpose or meaning.

So I'm drawn to the flame, again and again, oblivious of the danger and drunk with the feeling each time.

I am the Mothman; I have accepted that.

What I also need to accept is that there are other ways of healing, not everything is about me or what I can affect.

Everyone has a story, not everyone has a voice.

Everyone needs to be heard, not everyone has that choice.

I may not be able to heal the world, but I can be the voice of those who cannot.

I will tell their stories.

And mine.