If I ever need to describe a *****, in words. In detail.
I know where to draw inspiration from.
I know exactly where to find it.
The spite, I think. You draw it out,
a long spindle of malice you
stab with.
Superiority, you know nothing of the struggles around you,
wrapped up in whatever
News article of drama starts circulating in your head and then you
Write your own letters to the editor.
Setting it straight, your side where you play the victim and you are misused and you are abused,
Without consideration to actual reality.
You, sicken me.
A secret? Let me paint it over buildings in the dead of night so in the morning, you must
Hide your face.
Hide.
It.
Now.
Let it be known that if ever
In any book
I write a character, a character with all the right environment.
Someone who picks evil, someone who picks the darker road.
They will have a trace of you in the very middle, a seed
That when they blossom will have spawned from my conceptual image
Of your very core.