Guts

You think the world is after your guts, but your entrails do not get to lap at my feet with your feats of victimization.

Your defamation disgusts me- and this is why those who love you are plastic. Faces frozen in time, a grimace permanently engraved onto their perfect little faces. They could not even shed a crystallized tear should you die, you absolute fool, when I have cried for your memory countlessly.

It's fine. Go be fine with them.

I will scratch out your name in my story, dilute the swoops in your name for ink blotches. You do not have the guts- not to be individualized, not to create your own narrative. You are a parasite, suckling onto the nearest warm vein in hopes it will thaw out your pathetic little heart. But you will always remain as you were born- cruel and easy to mold into the shape those who beat you around wish you to be.

Those you defame me for do not love you- you are nothing but a pawn, they your idols. You seek acceptance when you are as displaced as I, as if I do not share the ink of your exact pain. As if I were not the hero in your pathetic, morphed pages. But I realize with disgust, how true those were that hate me were.

They did not pretend to like me. You pretended to.