Passion is not chaos. Drama is not intimacy. Love is not Care.
I am not you. You are not we.
If you insist my blood, sweat and tears be used to line your pockets, then I will instead choose to fertilize the roses with them.
If you insist I choose your laws over my own well-being then I will break those laws by every means, hook or crook.
If you insist I donate my organs to serve your nefarious aims, then those organs will come to you riddled with the poisons I willfully ingest, that I gorge on simply for the pleasure of poisoning your agenda deeper in return.
If you insist I offer my thoughts to you, measured, tempered, on your silver platter, twisted in pretty plaits and coated in marzipan, thine will be done, my Lord and Master, but their bitter core you will still ingest.
So still we dance that macabre dance, mon seigneur.