I am perennially flawed. Imperfect at every edge. Jagged in all the wrong places. Bent, bruised and battered but never broken beyond repair. I can be petty, beyond spiteful on even the best of days. I’m better at holding grudges than underpaid nine to fives. I value money enough to crumble it up and throw it at overpaid strippers on stage. But the jokes on her because the dollars descending as we speak.
They tell me I’m intelligent, but they do so in a condescending, disappointed manner like Ben Affleck and Robin Williams did to Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting — rendering it incredulous instead of relevant.
I do alone so well to the point it’s detrimental to my mental health and adherence to social norms. I’m talking to the point I don’t comprehend how solitary confinement is considered a punishment in prison.
I’d rather be put in a padded broom closet of a room by myself for the extent of my sentence if the alternative is to have to watch convicted felons shit, shower and shave, while I pray I don’t have to shiv one of them in the jugular in self-defense for trying to sexually assault me in my sleep one night.
But hey, that’s just me. To each their own. I reckon some would rather risk being sexually violated by a career criminal of the same sex than keep themselves company.
I’m a walking contradiction. A bundle of white harmless lies I can hardly keep track of or manage. It’s gotten to the point even I don’t know what’s true anymore. The line between fact and fiction has fizzled, it’s no longer visible.
I may forgive you verbally, but I have a heart filled with as much pain, resentment, and anger as it is with love and empathy.
Some people used up their allotted amount of the love and empathy I had to offer, and now unadulterated rage and coldness is all they have left to choose from.
I’ve been through war and back. I died and returned to this worthless earth even more damaged then I was before.
And the planet itself too was somehow worst off than when I had left it.