The Burgeoning Nothing
I believe in nothing.
It took me the first wasted, squalid, mind-blowingly sycophantic eleven years of my life to finally understand that I had a choice. That not everything anyone said had to carry a total authoritarian kinship inside my brain. There were options. A decision. I had a meaning, some defining connotation as opposed to the you I didn’t know how to be. I was such a pretty you, though. I was charming if not awkward, a growing girl with little sense of “her.”
Humans are Hell. Their souls can be captured, kept in the stranglehold of a demon’s staid grapple. It took me twelve years to decide “she” and I weren’t getting along as well as you wanted to. Long months spent in incubation, “he” finally came out. I appeased “him” a lot better than you would have, notwithstanding their utter hate, introverted and exploited alike. “He” didn’t like me, and I didn’t like them. I didn’t like anything.
I don’t like things. Humans are Hell. Hell wrapped in festive decorations, masquerading as love and promises, memories dressed as dreams and nightmares frozen onto the surface of my skin. She was weak, and unsure. He was no stronger, but honest in his distrust of humans and their belovèd desecration. “Rape me, rape me,” he says, and I listens to him. I wants “him.” I is him. Abstract ideas like love repelled him, with good reason. When it finally Venus Fly Trapped him, he thought maybe it could last forever, so it wasn’t so bad.
I didn’t think it’d be so bad. It’ll be kinda okay, if it’s like this. What a gorgeous lie. So crapping beautiful. Alluring. Tempting, even. Gorgeous lies clad in red, black, green, orange. Macabre and infuriating and why does everything remind me of her? Humans are Hell. They make their mistakes, they recover, they move on. The human spirit can be fickle and desolate, deplorable in its skin hunger, easy to forgive where there are opportunities to heal.
A human can heal so easily. So flawlessly, vaingloriously easy.
If only I were human.
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