Why must they beg, make me want to kill them?
Down on their knees, and I am the villian?
They are weak, scum, shit beneath my boot.
A .45 from my backside, I point. Shoot.

My inner demon cackles, her eery whisper no more.
And I cry out, dropping to the blood covered floor.
Eyes wide, twinkling with wetness, I look at what I have done.
Did I... did I really just have fun?

I want to scoop the poor girl up, go outside and run.
I want save your life, but it was my gun.
I still have yet to move a muscle, my mind is reeling.
Tell me what is real, what the fuck am I feeling?

Someone else is in control as I pick myself up,
Is that you? yup.
I'm tripping over my own feet
As I run like I've been beat.

Fucking never ending hallway
I scream for my NIGHTMARE  TO  GO  AWAY
But she has me in her arms, alive or not
I remove my .45, point it at my brain..
                                                             ­              take  one  last  shot.

Just looking at you
barefoot in my tiled kitchen
floor, makes me so weak.

And when you step out
of the shower after bath
oh, makes me secrete.

You, pointing your toes
when you put on your stockings
makes me lick my lips.

Oh, I love your feet.
And I love your legs too and
Oh, I love your feet.

It was June 1967
Dad come to visit
Bought us a beach ball
A beach ball in El Paso?
Maybe try seeing how long
We can bounce it in the desert
Before it gets punctured by a cactus

Then we took it out and
The wind grabbed it
Just like it does tumbleweeds
We chased after it
Then got in his rental
And went driving around looking for it
Until finally we gave up
And Dad caught his flight

We wouldn’t see him
Until six years later
During the summer of the Watergate hearings
And he said
You remember that beach ball
We remembered the beach ball

Well when I was going to the airport
I saw it pressed against
A chain link fence
But I just drove on

Found someone new and I lost the old me.

I miss that little girl that's locked up screaming to be free.

Find that little girl and hug her tight.

She's weeping, trying to keep her head up high.

HA HA HA. HAHA.

Those laughter rang in her ears since she was five,
when the kids in kindergarten called her ugly.

Until now, it still haunts her.

Those words slowly became the monsters that she have came to love.

Because they become her shield.
How can she love herself when she loves the monsters in her head more?

When she can't bring herself to run away from them.

When she listens to them and shut out the ones she holds dear to.

And these people who actually LOVES. HER. BACK.

And before she can love another, she needs to love herself. FIRST.

She. Is me. I, am her.

I have been mourning for these monsters for a while now.

I realized I need to kill them before they kill me.

Before they make me kill that little girl that is crying but is trying to fight her way back.

These monsters have been a part of me that I have been holding on.

I used to hide behind them whenever I feel insecure.

They helped me build a wall to cower and cry behind.

They helped me disconnect myself from the world.
So that the rest of the world can feel comfortable.

Being disconnected gives you time to think.

Loneliness breeds thoughts.

Guess the fuck what?
No more of that bullshit.

My impression is here so stay.

My footprints will forever be marked behind me,
whether I like it or not.
And I think that I need a small spot for my footprints.

For me.

ME.

I crave for understanding and support.

I crave for genuine embraces.

I will explore.

Anywhere, everywhere.

Anything, everything.
And maybe you,
someday, one day.
My thirst for genuine affections
are driving me insane
but is inhibited my angst.

Because…
How do I explain to my mother that her only daughter,
her only child is one confused mess.

I like girls.
I like boys.

I might not like girls.
I might not like boys.

Maybe I like both.

Maybe I am just blind…to gender.
One way or another,
I have come to accept that it doesn't really matter.
Whichever way, I go, it's okay.
I want to stop apologizing for cussin’ around.

Because to me they are motherfucking appropriate.
I am fucking tired of having to be sorry for being me.

I am fucking tired of having to be censored.
Just because some people think that
my orientation is an abomination to the population,
blaming people like me for the demoralization of the institution just because they are the ones without proper education.
But fuck that, this is my identification.

I will never know when the time is right,
so I'm putting the hourglass into someone else’s hand.
I guess I will let time do its job.
For now, I am happy with our
awkward little conversations.
You deserve to know that I am just flattered of your existence.
And y’know what?
I think you do a fucking good job at that.
I want you to exist beside me.
To hold my hand in public
and not care about offending anyone by doing so because it shouldn't.

For now, I am holding on to the hope
that maybe you will accept me one day.
I feel things that I don’t understand when I’m with you.
Fucking kiss me out in the streets.
When our eyes met,
fireworks lit up in my chest but at night
those monsters put them out like rain
I trip over these feelings but hold them back because
of my fear of rejection.
Because I want to be good at being good to you.
Taking out these monsters may all need a lot work but I got time.

I'm writing a short on the Devil.
The lady at the library didn't bat an eye.
I woke up at three in morning, worried.
It was just a bad dream,
a nightmare.
Its curious to think how strong his voice is
coming out of me.
Maybe I'm just that gifted
or maybe there's something I don't see.
"Don't read the books if its going to frighten you"
my moms says.
"all of that is make believe"
my boyfriend says
"He is nothing but a lair, prick and never to be trusted"
says my dad
"can't wait to read it"
says a few
i write limiting myself to where the story will go
I write on shaking that thought and opening my mind
I write on and on writing to scare myself.
Asking what If
the If i read is the question of sin
the if Stephen King taught me to use
The if that maybe...
no, it can't be.
there is nothing to fear.

Some was shocked.
Some was amazed.
When the dad said, I love you.

Some was astonished.
Some was surprised.
When the dad said, I love you.

The biggest shame were from the men.
Who told him to be a man.
Don't show that emotion.
It just something a man doesn't do.

Be a man's man.
And the children's will know it.
Still, the dad said, I love you.

Besides, that just what he chose to do.