i am not a bad person.
i was born in the cellar of a murderer's home, welcomed into the world by a concrete, blood-stained floor.

i was born into blood, grew up through anger. i hid the memory deep underneath; plenty of time to grieve for my younger self later on down the road.

the wolves allowed me to shelter my broken skin in their caves, licking my wounds and entwining their souls forever with my own.

i cried tears blacker than the nail polish she used to paint my nails with on friday nights; they hit the earth and singed the grass.

the first time another man touched my scarred legs, i felt the rat you buried so long ago sprint from my body and exit through my mouth in the form of a sob.

at your funeral, i sat alone, kept my shoulders square, my head angled downwards. i met no one's eyes, for i didn't want them to see how dry my own were.

two men - one whom i adored and loved more than anyone, the other whom i wished death upon every single day.
it took me until they were both gone to realize that both left the same impact on my shaking spine.