I am so sorry.
I am never there for anyone.
I just keep running.
I can’t stop.
I run from everything and everyone.
I push **** down.
I pretend it doesn’t bother me.
I fake it.
I put masks on all seven heads.
I mash them into one.
I force others to see someone else.
I am too hideous to look at.
I will burn them if they see.
I play with them too.
I entertain myself by manipulating them.
I would be ****** to death if they ever saw what I do to them.
I lie.
I torture.
I ******.
I become invisible beneath the smiles and no one suspects a **** thing.
I cover my hands in blood.
I use those hands to stab.
I use those hands to twist the knife.
I use those hands to hold back their heads so I can watch the light leave their eyes as their bodies convulse and collapse.
I use those hands to tear through their still-warm chests and to rip out their hearts because I am too tainted, too dark, to empty, to be able to grasp a soul.
I take them, and I run.
I realize now: it is not because I can’t stop.
It is because I won’t.
And now I understand:
I am not that sorry.