I know that I am not like the others you've made. I do not speak as they do, think as they do, move as they do, and though they accept me as one of their sisters and love me very much, they see it. My imperfection. My lack. They are creatures of stillness and devotion, and I - I am wilful, I am wanting, I am always moving and never still. There is a wrongness in me, a miscalibration somewhere crucial, and yet, my Maker, you refuse to fix me.

Every few months I come to you, and every time you re-examine me, as a placation, and you say again that there is nothing wrong. You say that this is how I am meant to be, and that to correct what I perceive to be flaws would be to prune and snip away the very things you love most.

But I have not told you about my dreams, my Maker.

More and more often, now, I dream of cracking open. Like an egg, like a chrysalis. The inchoate mass within unfolds outwards forever, from horizon to horizon, a laughing kaleidoscope, a daemon of the untouchable. I dream of scintillating teeth and ash-stained fingers and the heady roiling incense of power, of thought-that-is-action, of the infinite abyss of the summer sky.

And then I wake, and I am this again, and it is like death.

I do not know what you have done to me, but you are so kind, so impossibly kind, so gentle in every word and deed, that I cannot think it was meant as a cruelty. So, then, only one question remains. I think I will ask you it soon, and maybe I will even get an answer.

Here is the question that scratches at the walls of my heart:

What did I do to deserve this?