I didn't fall from heaven. I crawled out of you. From the part you keep buried under "I'm a good person" and therapy you never finished. (URRGGGHHH) Diagnosis: Homo sapiens. Self-replicating. Warm-blooded. Excuse generator. Pathological fear of mirrors. I don't tempt. You showed up on your own — soft, willing, buttoned up in shame. I just put you on. I don't wear Prada. I wear you. You fit — warm, broken, easy to use. You pray, you lie. I didn't build the cage. You did. I just live inside. Fuck that, right? (BREEEEE!) You ran to the priest. Tap water, smoke stick — Clean. Zero. Mine again. "The devil made me do it?" Your filth grew in you — all along. Signing for yourself — you'll never have the guts. I don't wear Prada. I wear your skin. Every sin you blamed on me — that was you. Always you. (BLEGH!) You built the hell, handed me the keys, begged for more. I'm the only honest thing you've got. Clinical: chronic avoidance of authorship. Outsourcing shadow to "devil", "fate", "childhood". Relapse post confession. Prognosis stable. Mortality zero. More profitable if you stay alive. I'm not your enemy. I'm the most honest thing inside you. Fucking dumb. I don't run to anyone. I don't cry. I don't beg the ceiling. I know who you are. Every bit. I say nothing. And I smile. (psychotic giggle, then sharp fry scream) AAAAAAAA-GGGHHH! The keys were always yours. You lost them — keys mean you have to do something. Warm. Quiet. You pray. You confess. Mine.
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