Everyone hides certain parts of themselves;
Parts about which they're ashamed, scared,
Or even excited.
Is this who we are in our truest sense?
Or can it be said that what we show
And to whom we show it
Are just as much “who” we are as what we hide?
The parts I hide and the parts I show
All make up the real me,
And the real me may surprise you:
I am a murderer.
I no longer **** flesh, though I have
I don't **** spirit, for I cannot.
I have only killed once and, even so,
But that was a matter of destiny.
The life I snuffed out did not deserve it
But it was his destiny as well.
You've heard his name,
Was perfect but destined to die.
As a human I am destined to sin,
But not him.
It was this destiny,
That destroyed him,.
It was this grotesque certainty that held him,
Not those horrid spikes.
This outcome was inescapable for one reason alone:
He: set to die
I: made a killer before my time.
It is because of this I write;
It is because of this you now read;
It is destiny that through these words we meet.
The only innocent man died
And his killer walks the lonely path of a free man.
And, in an ironic twist of events,
The murderer is made clean by his victim.
Though he died,
He is not dead.
Though a part of me died with him,
I am a killer no longer;
I am washed blood red.
This, you could say, was my
This I will not hide.
This is who I am.