It is utter foolishness to pray for increased sensitivities in a world like ours. I have always carried a darkness that fed and entertained me. Now, I don’t want it anymore. This is my dilemma—questioning if I can undo what I have done to myself. For so many years I have sought the shelter of detaching affinities, guarding them with introverted clutches. My bed is an uncomfortable place when I think like this. My feet tangle in the sheets, hands cover my face, my breath leaves heavily. The temperature grows excessive. I beckon tears, drawing a forced union with divinity. I envision interlocking plates of sculpted metal encasing my vital organs, shielding my capacity to feel. These armor plates contain my emotional radiation, reflecting their source, poisoning my sensitivities, sealed and buried like nuclear waste.