The blood on my fingers is not mine
It happened again.
I am not a monster. But when the first shot rang out, all I could see was red. The fire in my veins swallows me whole, burning my sense away and leaving nothing but fear and anger.
Maybe that's all I am, underneath it all. Fear and anger.
Something is happening to me. Is this what I turn into the moment I have something to lose? A dog, barking and scratching blindly?
I don't even bleed like them.
Maybe I am something lesser, underneath the multitude of masks I wear. Sometimes I wonder if there's anything left at all underneath. If there's anything worth loving in what remains of who I truly am.
I am a shriveled corpse with makeup smeared over my face in a desperate attempt to convince the audience I'm still alive.
Why was I born this way? Why was I even born at all?
Please forgive me. I am a monster.
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