Duty is an act of violence put on is the second we are born into the world.

The second I picked up the crown I was covered in blood that belonged to no one but myself. The throne looks right at me. The sword lays at my side. It bore my name long before I took my first breath. There is one rule and I will follow it to my grave.

Despite all of my attempts I have never been healer. I blame my ****** up parents. I hurt people and they leave and I am alone in a room full of silence. I sing to try and forget, but it does not work.

There is a home waiting for me with someone else, in a town I want to breathe in. I will leave this town quietly and at night I will tremble but he reaches over and touches me like a prayer for which no words exist.

In my nightmares the one who hurt me says “I love you” and all of a sudden my anger feels like a curse. I don’t know if I was born with anger in my veins or if it stuck after a while but, it’s all I have.

Being alive is a sin. My anger is a sin. God taught me guilt when I was about nine. I haven’t let it go since. I will die tired and when I go I will go somewhere good. I hope it’s good because hell is nothing but doubt, which I’ve felt my whole life.

Let me be free.

I lay in bed at night asking the ceiling “but how can I sleep with all of this blood on my hands and the weight of the world in my head?”