Hateful Self

I don’t sleep, but if I do, I dream of my own love. I’m terrified by it.

What is worthy of love? It is the humans: the strange, wonderful creatures!

I captured them and put them in a cage. I held them in my hands and wished to love them! I bound them to me, so that they could never escape. What is love? I wanted to know. Why did I love the humans so? I loved every morsel of them. Their skin, their eyes, their blood, their heart, their bones…I loved them alive and I loved them more dead. I molded them until they warped, until that beautiful blood flowed into ribbons of red. Humans look ravishing in red. I danced with them on feetless legs and lolling heads. I kissed their bruised tongues.

It was wrong! God, I know, it was a mortal sin, and yet I am no longer mortal. I was never mortal. So I watched. I screamed, too, but mine were none as lovely as theirs. Mine were hideous, so I locked myself in. Me. No, the other me. I looked at my hands—are they my hands, or are they hers?

I want to love, but my life is drowned in hate. Why do I do this? I’m scared. I don’t want to fall asleep, because then I will come out. The other me. No. Just me. Me as I always am. Which one is the real one? Who came first?

Who knows?