You are a slave to your sense of duty. You are the child who raises his hand when no one else will. It’s not your responsibility, but you feel the tug of some innate obligation. The question must be answered; the void must be filled. If not you, then who?
A parade of lost souls marches through your life. No one will love them. No one will stroke their hair and hold them tight and make them feel alive. No one will step up, and their wounds call you forth.
You love out of duty. You love to fill a void. You love because they deserved to be loved, and if not you, then who?
Flaw Salad 
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