I can understand you not wanting to be in the same room with me - though my nails are trimmed short, the claws still show. I'm not dangerous, not like that. But something in me might rip to shreds something in you. Could you be grateful for your own death? Or does clinging to the un-naked and safe suit you better? It's not me that wants your death. But the wildness in me. It smells the unborn, the unalive, the staleness in you and it salivates. What a tasty morsel you would be to yourself if only you would rip the flesh off, keep ripping, down to the bark then the bone of your own true beauty, tossing all that you were into the fire. You should be afraid. So why not, holy terrified, offer yourself up to the altar of you own deepest truth? The question isn't "what do you have to lose?" but "what might you become?" If that makes your blood surge and your heart quicken and your soul fill with longing, perhaps you should take a walk, alone, in the woods and see what finds you there?