Oh, now you want to talk it out. You hide the truth of Lyctorhood from all of us—you hide it from me, you hide it from me when you've known for a myriad how much it would mean to me to know what it is I left behind.

[her fists clench at her sides, but she can feel her nose tingling and her eyes welling up as she continues to talk, continues to spiral. they say that anger is just love disappointed, and no one has ever disappointed apollonia more than the man who became God.]

And you tear me into pieces, you turn me into a vapor, and now—now!, you're interested in talking through things? I should commit deicide. I should take your awful fucking crown of bone and turn it into a choke collar. Would that make You care about me? Would that make you see me as one of Your own? Do we all need to have some grand scheme against you to be worthy of Your love?

[she's closed the distance again before she can even call attention to having done it. she is standing at her full height, ready to assassinate her God, and she is crying thin streaks down her face. the whites of eyes that do not belong to her have gone red.]

Why can I never be good enough for you, my Lord?