"Wicked" is a witch that you hear stories about on Halloween. It is the step-mother that keeps you locked in a dungeon Or the half-sibling that nominates you to be the royal scapegoat when they **** up.
"Wicked" is not you. It is not the sincerity in your voice when you say "I love you" Or the warmth of your hand when you trace the battle scars on my skin Or the soothing calm that tells me "everything is going to be just fine".
"Wicked" is the other half that leaves imprints in the walls when it doesn't get it's way. It is the sharpened tongue that has me cowering in the corner, Waiting for the cyclone of words to pass. It is the crack in the otherwise perfect glass that is your soul, the proof that no one is truly perfect.
"Wicked" is not you. At least, not in public. Not where there are eyes other than my own.