To the Man Who Stole My Dignity; opening.
You are no longer a fantasy derived in this small head of mine, nor are you a figment of my imagination. You are a living, breathing specimen of human life. And it will be to my pleasure for you to leave this life, at least mine. I cannot avoid you and I can no longer attack you. I regret nothing I’ve done to hurt you, I mourn no part of your life that was broken by my hand. Better yet, I take great joy in knowing that my hand may have played a part in your tears. That someone so selfish, so disgusting, so vile of a creature could be hurt and that I was the one who did it. Essentially, I hate what you’ve done to me. I hate that you’ve destroyed what confidence I had. I despise that you tore away my trust, not from eager hands offering it to you like some blind follower hands his love to a God. No, you stole my trust, you stole it from clenched hands, not open. They were holding tight, holding tight to what I had left, but you had no part. Oh no, no part. You wanted it. And I’m positive you didn’t want my trust to enjoy it, you wanted it to destroy it. I had something you wanted, and I had something you got, and I had something you threw away. Like old garbage tossed to the side of the road. Like a sofa that was past its prime or an aged cat that had no ears, no mouth, no tail to beg for mercy, to plead for a second chance. No, I was faceless, I was nameless, I was emotionless, I was nothing. Nothing to you then and nothing to you now. But I am an nuisance. I have irritated you. I have been relentless to seek what I feel I deserve. Apology. Nothing more, nothing less. I don’t want you to touch me. I don’t want you to feel me. I don’t want you to see me. I just want a goddamn apology. You did me wrong. And no, it wasn’t just a mere stealing of treasures that I held valuable. It was a thievery of dignity, a burglary of my fucking pride. Something of which I really didn’t have to begin with. And something I very much so lack now. I won’t thank you for helping me find the error of my ways. Because you didn’t, I found them myself. I fixed them my goddamn self. And I will continue to fix them BY MY SELF. I don’t need your help, I don’t need your dick and I don’t need your presence. It’s disgusting. You fucking disgust me. I think of you and I am repulsed. I am disgusted. Your body, your face, the way you walk, talk and move. It’s all disgusting. Repulsive. It’s a horrid thought to think I let you fucking touch me. Oh and not only did you touch me roughly, but you touched without emotion. It wasn’t even a friendly emotion, it was like I was some goddamn prostitute but I wasn’t getting paid. Although, I should have for dealing with your inadequacy. For dealing with your selfish, vile ways. I hear now that you need to be rid of me. Like I am a pest. Like I was disgusting, I am a demon in your otherwise perfect existence that is (or seems to be) dedicated to God. Well, you’re friends may not know, you’re parents may not know. But I know, and you’re all-powerful God sure as hell knows that you are no saint. You have no right to pass judgement onto others such as me, that act like me, and walk like me, and talk like me. No. No, you may pass judgement onto us, but in reality, in reality you are just like us. You walk like us, and you talk like us and you breathe like us and you fuck like us and you will die just like us.